My Brother's War
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: Spend time in Vietnam with Soda Curtis. Story Complete.
1. Preface

**A/N: My foray into the minefield that is known as Soda goes to Vietnam. ;)**

 **This preface chapter starts off with an adult Ponyboy reflecting on a late night with his brother when he was 8 and Soda, 10. I thought the use of present tense made the chapter more evocative and powerful than it would be using past tense. So, I decided to write Pony's memories in present tense form. Hopefully it is not confusing. If anything is confusing, let me know. Enjoy!**

* * *

I am eight, my brother Sodapop is ten. I am sitting cross-legged in a corner of our bedroom, walled in by a tower of books that almost reach to the top of my head.

"I can't hardly see you," Soda chuckles. "What are you doin', Ponyboy?"

 _I'm just about to do battle with thousands of ferocious soldiers and monsters. Soda's pile of dirty socks is the enemy camp, the Lone Ranger gun in my lap is my powerful, magical weapon; and I am a warrior._

"Readin'," I lift my head above the pile of books.

"Oh, there you are!" Soda places his hand on top of his chest and lets out a deep breath. "Phew. You was so quiet; I thought 'em pile of books crashed on you."

I shake my head. "You're crazy, Soda." I make a crazy sign with my finger and roll my eyes up and down. I'm a little bit peeved at my brother. I was _just_ about to battle the toughest warrior in all of the land, when Soda snapped me back to our small one-window bedroom in Tulsa.

"Hey, I ain't the one readin' for fun on a Saturday night," Soda gives me a big grin. Soda teases me all the time, but there is never any hint of cruelty or meanness in his teasing. Usually.

I'm about to go back to my book, when I notice my brother, clad only in his red underwear and white gym socks, yank the sheets and pillows off our beds.

"Whatchya doin', Soda?" _Besides making a mess_ , I think to myself.

"Practicin' my newest acrobatics move," To Soda, it is the most obvious answer in the entire world. "I'm gonna do a backflip off my bed and land on your bed."

I say a silent prayer he doesn't' break his neck.

He looks down at the pillows lying on the floor, "well, that should do it," and rubs his hands together.

"You really gonna do a backflip?" I bite down on my finger. "But, Soda, you ain't never done a back flip in your life."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Nah, but I watched Darry do 'em like a million times."

So have I, but you weren't going to see me doing mid-air backflips off furniture. I valued my head and my neck, and if mom caught me, my backside, too much.

"Don't worry, I got the pillows and them other stuff so if I do fall, I won't wake up mom and dad."

"Ain't you worried about getting hurt?"

Soda looks at me like I swallowed a bug. Out of all of us, Soda is by far the most adventurous. He is the first to climb trees, jump into rivers, and swing on ropes. Even Darry, our fourteen year old brother and the strongest kid I know, hesitates before doing something new for the first time.

Not Soda, he dives in head first. I won't do anything unless both Darry and Soda do it first, and even then, I'll make Soda take the plunge with me.

I think someone must be looking after Soda, because except for a few bruises and scrapes, he's largely escaped from his adventures unscathed.

That doesn't stop me from worrying on his behalf. And so, every time Soda does something particularly dangerous, I'm right behind him, chewing off my finger nail, closing my eyes and saying a prayer.

"Huh? I'm not gonna get hurt, Pony." He gives me his megawatt smile. "Besides," he continues, "with all em books you read, we could train you to be a doctor and you could fix my injuries for free!"

"Ha, ha," I cross my arms in front on my chest. I just want to go back to my book, but with Soda talking and jumping all over the place, I know that ain't happening.

I must look plenty mad, because Soda stops grinning and walks over to me, nearly tripping over one of his socks along the way. He looks at me with a serious expression, "you know I'm just joshin' you, right, Pony?" He tousles my hair, as I said; Soda never teases me to be cruel.

"Watch this, Ponyboy!"

I'm watching, cringing, but watching.

He jumps up on top of his bed and his eyes have a determined, focused look to them. It is a look I only see from him when he either angry or concentrating; in other words, not very often. He moves his arms behind his back and sticks out his tongue a bit, just like Darry does. My eye follows his lanky body from the top of his head to his stocking feet.

I bite down on my fingernail, close my eyes and pray.

 _WACK!_

I look up and see my brother, a huge grin on his face. I am so overcome with relief that he didn't try to throw himself across the room; I don't even feel the sting of the pillow. Quickly, I grab the nearest pillow and we are soon chasing each other around the room, wrestling and laughing. For someone my age and size I am a pretty good wrestler. That is partly because I have two older brothers who taught me everything I know, and partly because said older brothers almost always let me win.

I like wrestling with Soda, Darry always lets me pin him down right away. He makes it too easy. Soda makes me chase him and really wrestle him to the ground.

Our warrior camp/bedroom is now a wrestling ring: pillows, sheets and Soda's dirty socks go flying all over the place. We are laughing so hard we don't even notice our mother standing in the doorway.

I love my mother, but at 11:00 P.M. at night she takes absolutely no gruff from anyone, including her second and third born sons.

My dad rarely loses his temper with us, but when he does, watch out; while mom, although far stricter, is much more consistent. I think I prefer my mom's discipline, at least I know what to expect.

After threatening us with spankings, groundings and worst of all, no "Lone Ranger" if she hears a single peep from either one of us, she leaves.

I can tell by her brisk walk that she's still a bit angry when Soda yells after her "Sorry Mom! We'll be quiet. I love you!"

She stops and chuckles to herself. Sodapop could charm the pants off the Devil, she used to say.

"I love you too, Sodapop." She pauses, "I love you, Ponyboy."

I grin.

"I love you Mommy." I haven't called her "mommy" since I was six, but I did so then.

Soda rolls his eyes at me, "suck up" he mummers. I stick my tongue out at him.

Being a mother for 14 years, our mom has discovered the secret to good behavior: collective punishment. What has been banned by the Geneva Convention is alive and well at the Curtis house. If one of us misbehaves, every brother within 10 feet is likely to get punished as well.

She knows her sons. We hate to see the other guy get in trouble for our misdeed. For one, we love each other too much. For another, we all know that revenge will be _merciless_ on whatever brother screwed us over.

Soda and I clean up the pillows, sheets and dirty socks (blech!) and climb into our beds.

"Sorry I got you in trouble Pony."

"S'kay."

After fluffing up his pillows, Soda turns to me, "Pony, I can't get to sleep. I'm boooooorrrrrred."

Soda doesn't enjoy school and he likes paying attention and sitting still even less, but he's the only one in my family who really listens to my stories. Even Mom and Dad, as much as they try, their eyes glaze over sooner or later.

I try to think of a story to tell. I have a real good imagination, but when someone wants me to tell them a story my mind goes blank.

I think of the book I am reading.

"Well, I ain't finished with it, but I'm reading a real good Indian story."

Soda makes whooping noises. I am afraid our mom will wake up.

"Nah, not like that, like from India."

"Oh." Soda doesn't know much about different countries. "I like Indians, but I like Cowboys the best." Soda mimics the sound of a six-shooter pistol.

"They don't got no pistols in this story. It takes place in India in the real olden days." Soda begins to tap his hands against his pillow. "But, they have lots of cool fighting and stuff."

This gets Soda's attention.

"Well, there was this family with five boys."

"Wow! Five boys. I bet they drove their mom nuts. Can you imagine if we had 5 kids in our family? Mom would go crazy. Well, I guess we already do, with Johnny and Stevie."

I like Johnny a lot, but I don't like thinking of Steve as anything but a giant pain. I continue. "Anyways, there was this family with five boys. The oldest boy was named Yudhishthira, he was the leader he always told the others what to do, but he was real wise and all."

"That sounds like Darry."

"The second brother, Bhima, was really big and real good at fighting and wrestling."

"Ha, now that guy sounds just like Darry!"

"Darry don't wrestle…"

"Yeah, but he's a real good at football and gymnastics and fighting."

"The second brother also loved to eat."

Soda guffawed. "That boy is Darry! Did you see him at dinner? Man, he was woolfin' down his food so fast Mom went ape on him!"

I couldn't disagree with him so I went on. "The third brother was named Arjuna…"

"That sounds like a girl's name to me."

"Nope, Arjuna is a guy."

"Pretty sissy name if you ask me."

 _I didn't._

"As I was saying the third _brother_ , Arjuna, was really good at using a bow and arrow…"

"You sure there ain't no cowboys in this story?"

"Nah. I told you these ain't those types of Indians. Anyways, the middle brother was also real good, like he don't lie, cheat or steal from nobody."

"Now that guy sounds like both Darry and you."

"What you mean? I don't know how to shoot a bow and arrow. I don't think Darry does either."

"No, but you guys could learn it you try. You guys never get in trouble in school."

It was true; Soda was the only one of us who got notes sent home from school.

"The fourth brother, Nakula, was really popular and everyone liked him. He was good at riding horses too. You hear that Soda, that boy sounds like you."

He doesn't say anything, so I continue.

"He was also…" I pause dramatically, "the handsomest boy in the entire country."

At this, Soda gives a little chuckle.

"The littlest brother, Sahadeva, was really smart but really quiet."

"That's you Pony!"

He practically roars with excitement, and for a moment I'm afraid our mom is going to wake up again and really give it to us.

I smile to myself.

"Oh yeah, these last two boys were twins and were really close."

"Hmm mmm" Soda just mumbles.

"These brothers were really good friends"

"Just like us."

"Uh-huh. But they had like 100 cousins and they got in a bunch of fights with their cousins. Cause their cousins were always real mean and bossy and ornery."

I don't t tell my brother that their cousins reminded me of Steve Randle, because Steve was Soda's best friend and that wouldn't have been nice; even if it is true.

"So the brothers get into a lot of adventures; like the oldest brother was a gambler and he gambled away their money, so they all had to live in the woods as punishment."

"Don't sound like punishment to me. Shoot, I like the woods. Remember how Dad caught that big ol' catfish last weekend?"

I remembered. I also remembered how Soda jumped in the river fully clothed and Dad told him if ever tried a stunt like that again, he'd tan his hide.

Soda said he was "deep sea diving."

Soda is still chatting away about our camping trip with Dad. I interrupt Soda because if I don't I know he'll never shut up. "Yeah, well maybe the woods in India ain't like the woods in Oklahoma, maybe they're haunted?"

My brother doesn't answer, so I continue. "Even though the oldest brother messed up, the other brothers didn't want him to be alone, so the joined him in the woods. Remember them mean, old nasty cousins? Well, after the brothers leave the woods, they are about to get into a big rumble with Ste-the cousins."

"Hey Pony, I thought you said there was gonna be fightin' and stuff. Ain't nothing going on in your story."

"Maybe, if you just listen… I'm gettin' to the good part.

The middle brother, Arjuna, the one who is the best shot in the family, he had this teacher who taught him everything he knew. He loved his teacher. But the teacher is fighting on the side with the cousins. Before they go into battle, the teacher tells Arjuna that if they face each other in battle, he wants the middle brother to kill him.

The middle brother is sad and scared, because he really likes and respects this guy, and he don't want to fight him. The second oldest brother, Bhima, the big guy who liked to fight and eat, he loved his brother, and he saw how scared the middle brother was. So, he came up with this trick to kill the teacher so his little brother wouldn't have to."

Soda yawns, "that was neat of him."

He's almost asleep, but I continue.

"The second brother's trick worked, and the teacher died. Hey Soda, you want to hear how the second brother tricked the teacher?"

"Sure."

"Well, the teacher had a son that he loved a whole bunch. The boy's name was Ashwatthama. The son had the same name as this elephant. So, the second brother killed the elephant. Everyone shouted "Ashwatthama is dead!" the teacher, thinking it was his son that got killed, died of a broken heart. Ain't that something, Soda? Pretty good trick he played, lettin' everyone think the little boy was dead."

"Mmm." I take that as a yes.

"That sucks for the Dad though, I mean thinking his kid was dead and all that."

"Yeah." I didn't like to think about that part.

"The battle continues and there is a bunch of mutants and monsters and real cool stuff like that. There is also a girl involved, but I skipped over that part.

Anyways at the end of the story the five brothers are victorious, but the gods want to test the oldest brother. So, they send him to hell."

I relish the taste of a swear word on my mouth, but Soda is dead to the world.

I don't tell him the ending. The oldest brother sees that his four brothers are in hell. He is terrified, but in insists on staying down there with them, because to him, life without his brothers is hell enough. After he makes his decision, the gods tell him that this was all just a trick to test his virtue. He passed, and he can be reunited with his brothers, in heaven.

I think it's a nice story.

Soda is snoring quietly, it's the only thing he ever does quietly.

* * *

 _It's strange what our minds choose to remember. I have only the foggiest memories of the week following my parents' deaths, but I remember every single detail of this one random night with my brother._

 _At the time, I liked the story because those brothers reminded me so much of us, right down to their personalities and hobbies. At the time, I thought the idea of brothers who fought for each other and sacrificed for each other and who were even willing to go to hell for one another was a neat story._

 _But then we grew up. Looking back at our lives, and what happened to each one of us, and what happened to Soda in Vietnam and what happened to us when he came home, this story of brotherly sacrifice still haunts me to this very day._

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **The book Ponyboy talks about is the classic "Mahabharata." Through Google books I found a book for children published in 1901 that summarizes the stories in the Mahabharata, I figured Pony is reading something similar. Although knowing how smart Pony is, he could just as well be reading it in the original Sanskrit. ;)**

 **Thank you so much for R &R. I truly appreciate it so much. :)**


	2. Look Sharp, Be Sharp, Go Army

**1966, Tulsa**

Soda Curtis fidgeted in the chair. The back of his sneakers tapped against the chair's legs, while his fingers tapped in an off-beat rhythm against his knees.

The recruitment officer looked at him, "lots of energy there, son."

Soda stopped, embarrassed, "uh, yes Sir."

The officer gave the half laugh of someone who never laughed before in their life, "nothing to be embarrassed about son, the Army could use more boys with pep."

Soda put his hand on his mouth to prevent himself from chuckling; it was hard to reconcile this big, tough army recruiter with a man who said words like "pep."

An hour ago, Soda was inside a Ray's Diner enjoying a cheeseburger, (hold the pickles) and a chocolate milkshake with Two-Bit. Two-Bit and Kathy, his on/off again girlfriend, were in one of their 'off' phases and Two-Bit flirted with every single female who had a pulse, partly to find himself a temporary Kathy replacement and partly to make Kathy jealous.

This replacement was the new waitress down at Ray's, Donna. Once her shift was over she joined Soda and Two-Bit. Not wanting to the third-wheel, Soda decided to walk home.

He figured he could use the exercise.

Just before he hit Sutton Street, he ran into the recruitment officer. He asked Soda if he wanted to talk, and Soda, always up for a conversation with anyone and too polite to say no, found himself sitting in a small, damp room listening to the officer describe in glowing terms the life of a U.S. solider.

"Well, how about it son, how does serving your country in the greatest fighting force that ever graced God's green earth sound?"

Soda shifted in his seat. It was times like these that he wished he was blessed with his best friend's lack of a filter and manners. If Steve was with him, the two of them would just walk out of that office without a second thought. But Steve wasn't there, and Soda felt that he had to at least make conversation; after all, the man did just spend twenty minutes talking to him.

"Isn't there a war going on, Sir?" Soda didn't know much about Vietnam, he never paid attention to the news, Darry read the newspaper, but if the T.V. was turned on, it was usually to sports, not the evening news.

The officer's smile narrowed and eyes turned dark. "Yes, our brave boys are out there helping our allies in South Vietnam prevent the spread of Communism. Pretty worthwhile endeavor don't you think?"

It was a statement, not a question, and Soda nodded.

"I ain't a coward, Sir. I would fight for my family, my friends and my country without a moment's hesitation." Soda's eyes flickered for a second and he did his best to keep his voice even.

The officer hadn't called him a coward directly, but Soda could tell that was what the officer was thinking. It bugged the hell out of Soda, people looked at him and automatically thought he was soft. Soda has his mom's high cheekbones, fine nose, narrow brows and long eyelashes. His soft, easy southern drawl, which came from neither parent, didn't help matters either. He was thankful that he inherited his Dad's temper, wildness, lack of restraint and left jab, or else people would really think he was a pussy.

Once they saw Soda fight their opinions of him changed, but Soda couldn't invite the officer down to see a rumble. Besides rumbles were on their way out, it had been a while since Soda actually found himself in a true fight.

He missed that, fighting. It was a great way to blow off steam, now he just had drag races, dances, girls and whatever cockamamie schemes Two-Bit came up with.

But getting in a rumble was one thing, getting blow up to kingdom come was quite another, and while Soda missed his parents, he wasn't exactly itching to see them anytime soon.

"Son," the officer leaned towards Soda as if telling him a secret, "if you join the Army you can request a specific overseas assignment. We send our best to Vietnam, but we also need our boys in South Korea, other ports in East Asia, West Germany."

Soda visited Texas once and Kansas a few times, otherwise he'd never been outside Oklahoma. It might be fun, he thought, traveling, seeing the world. He didn't admit it to Steve but the DX just wasn't cutting it for him anymore. And if he didn't have the DX, what did he have?

The officer went on to explain the financial benefits of joining the Army. He pointed out, not incorrectly, that being a high school dropout, Soda's chances of getting a good job and earning a decent wage was limited, "but through the Army, you can get the training and education you need to support a family."

Soda knew the officer was probably talking about supporting a wife and children and Soda definitely wanted to get married and have a large family, just as soon as he could afford to provide for one; but right now he was too busy worrying about his current family.

Darry's hours were being cut down at the construction company where he worked, he was lucky though; about half the guys had gotten the pink slip. Soda feared that any day Darry would come home jobless.

If he joined the Army, served for a few years overseas, serve a few years stateside, he could help put Pony through college, hell, he might even be able to send Darry to college. He deserved it. After all he gave up for Soda and Pony, he deserved everything good in this world.

Soda glanced up at the recruitment poster pinned on the wall, " _Look Sharp, Be Sharp, Go Army._ " His dad's brother, Patrick, was a sharpshooter in the Second World War. Soda's dad constantly bragged to his boys about their Uncle's exploits: the time he used a piano wire to kill a German officer, the number of kills he had (the highest in the unit), how Uncle Sam always sent him on the most dangerous missions. It took Soda a while to figure out that Uncle Sam was a nickname for the Army and not another relative Soda never heard of before.

But Dad's bragging was tempered by his warning that the boys should never ask Uncle Pat anything about the war, that it was private. As a kid Soda thought it was strange, if Uncle Patrick was a bona-fide hero and had all of these great adventures, why wouldn't he want to brag about it?

He couldn't ask Uncle Daniel, his Mom's younger brother, about his experiences in the South Pacific, because he died in 1945, one of the very last American causalities.

But when it came to family members and the service, the only person on Soda's mind was his dad. An accident as a teenager rendered him a 4F, and he carried the weight of that rejection almost as heavily as Uncle Pat carried the weight of his war time memories.

Soda had no doubt what his father would do if he were in his shoes.

For the first time, Soda sat straight up and looked the officer in the eye, "Sir, I would like serve my country."

The office shook his hand, his handshake as vigorous as Soda imagined.

Soda sank back in his seat while the officer went to get the paperwork.

Now, all he needed to do was explain his decision to Darry.

Maybe he should ask for weapons training sooner rather than later…

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**

 **Look Sharp, Be Sharp, Go Army was the slogan in the 1950s and 1960s**


	3. The Nightmare

Pony isn't the only Curtis who has nightmares; you have them too.

You're ten years old. You and Steve take second place at the Soapbox Derby competition, Darry wins a medal in a gymnastics meet, Pony reads the most books out of all of the eight year olds in your school. But, none of that stuff matters, Dad isn't here.

He's in Texas, working at an oil rig. They tell you he's working down there to make money, but that's a lie. You can hear your parents fight late at night. They speak in low voices, but sometimes a shout or a yell will emerge from their bedroom. You put the pillow over your ears. You look over at your brother, he's dead to the world. Thank God for that.

You try to ask Darry why your parents are fighting since Darry knows everything, but he won't spill the beans. He knows the real reason, but he pretends he doesn't. He's a horrible liar. It makes you feel sad, it's the first time since you were little kids that Darry lied to you.

Darry is just trying to be protective, but you don't need protection, you're almost eleven.

It's when your Dad is gone that your nightmares begin. You wake up in the middle of the night frozen with fear, you can't scream, you can barely move your head. When you do move it, you glance over at your little brother, his body turned away, asleep.

You can't tell Pony about your nightmares, he's too young. You think about telling Darry, but decide not too. Darry is great when it comes to handling bullies, but he's not so great when it comes to problems he can't see. He'll just shrug his shoulders and say, "it ain't real Soda." You think about telling your mom, but she's so stressed and tired trying to run a family and hold down a job that you don't want to worry her more.

She works part time at a chocolate factory, typing bills up for the accountants. She doesn't even bring home free samples.

In the past you could always go to your dad. You talk to your dad a lot, about how you hate school (he didn't like it either) how much you love the rodeos (he liked them even more than you do), but you can't do that now. He calls Collect once a week, and talks no more than five minutes. Just "hello" "love ya" and "bye."

He's sounds so tired over the phone that even if you could talk to him, you wouldn't feel right bothering him. Not with something so stupid as a bad dream.

You think about telling Steve. But one day you come across your best friend throwing rocks at an abandoned building. His face is filled with as much fury as you've ever seen on him. It scares you. Not that you think Steve would hurt you of course, but to see Steve in that much anger and pain.

All of his anger goes into throwing the rock.

"Hey Stevie, what's wrong?" If it were anyone else, Steve would start yelling at them. But, you're his best friend.

He puts down his rock, "my dad told me that he wished I was never born. That I messed up his life."

You look at Steve closely, he has tears in his eyes. He's trying not to cry in front of you and he blinks his eyes rapidly, which just makes the tears fall down his face. You kneel down and pretend to tie your shoelace-giving Steve the privacy he needs to wipe away his tears on his sleeve.

"It's true," he says in a bitter voice, "what my dad said is true."

Anger boils up inside of you, Steve is your best friend, but man, can he be so stupid!

"Shutup Steve! It ain't true at all. You're the best buddy a guy could have. You ain't the problem it's your stupid dad." You've never called Mr. Randle stupid before, and if someone insulted your dad, you be up on them in a jiffy. But Steve just nods.

You pick up the rock and with all of your strength throw in at the building, breaking a window. Steve looks surprised. You don't see why, you're not a guy who gets angry very often, but when you do, you explode like a volcano. You don't know why you're so angry. Maybe, it's because Steve's Dad is such as jerk, maybe it's because of your stupid nightmares, or maybe it's because you don't have anyone to talk to.

But Steve gets it. He gets that you get angry sometimes and just want to throw rocks. He gets you.

Just like that, the anger stops. It feels good for a minute or two, but ultimately it's exhausting being this angry. You make a joke, it's a stupid joke, but Steve laughs. It's just a little laugh, but it's there. The two of you put down your rocks and start horsing around in the field.

Steve never learns about your nightmares, he has enough to deal with, but hearing your best friend laugh makes you feel better, if only for a moment. You would gladly take on all of the nightmares in the world if it meant the people who cared about were happy.

There is another reason you can't tell your mom about your nightmare, it's about her.

You don't have much of an imagination, that's Pony's department and you're not good at school, that's both Darry and Pony. But this dream, you can remember every single little detail.

You see your dad driving a station wagon. You guys don't have a station wagon, but that's definitely your dad driving. There's a lady next to him, you can't see her real good, but you figure it's your mom. In the backseat you see the outlines of three kids-you and your brothers. Then the car crashes. You hear the impact, see the blood. The smell of burning flesh is so real that you're afraid you might throw up in your sleep.

But you can't wake up.

Every night the dream becomes more and more real.

Once your dad comes home, the nightmares stop.

But four years later they come roaring back. It's the same dream, the same station wagon, the same car crash, the same dead parents and orphaned children.

No one knows about your nightmares. You're fourteen and too old for nightmares, so you suffer in silence. You school work doesn't really suffer, but that's only because you're lousing up your schoolwork so much already.

But as quickly as they came, they disappear, and you're back to being your old carefree self. You're schoolwork doesn't get much better, but you feel better. You don't think about dreams. You think about horses and cars and girls, especially Sandy. She is so beautiful.

Then comes that day when you're sixteen, your parents dead in a car crash. You feel responsible. You should have told them about your dream. You know deep down that it isn't true, besides what where they supposed to do, stop driving for six years? But if they knew about the dream, maybe your dad wouldn't have taken that turn so fast.

That's the real reason you breakdown at their funeral. You stare ahead at the wooden coffins. To your left, Darry is trying his best to keep it together on the outside, but he is completely broken on the inside; to your right, Ponyboy is crying. He looks so damn young. He _is_ so damn young. He would hate hearing it, but he's just a little boy.

That's when you lose it. If only you had manned up and told your parents your dream, they might still be alive. You promise yourself that you're going to take your dreams more seriously now. Maybe they're a sign?

Man, that's stupid. But, maybe?

The night of the funeral, it's Ponyboy who has a nightmare. His nightmare scares you so much more than your own nightmare because you love him so much more than you love yourself. He wakes up screaming, drenched in sweat. You feel that your heart is about to jump out of your chest.

Pony doesn't remember the nightmares in the morning, which is good in a way, but also bad, because neither you or Darry know what to say to help him. You want to ask Pony if his nightmares are about Mom and Dad, but you're afraid.

He might not remember his nightmares, but they're all you can think about.

You're not big on praying, especially since God took away everything, but you figure He owes you one. With all of your heart you pray that God will take away Pony's nightmares and give them to you. "Come on, Lord, he's just a little kid. Give me all of his nightmares, I don't care. Just leave him alone." You unfold your hands and quickly fold them back up again, "Amen."

He only answers part of your prayers. You have nightmares, but so too does Pony.

But, you shouldn't be surprised, after all He just took away your parents, Darry's chances of going to college and Pony's innocence, why would He help you guys out?

Darry is worried enough about Pony that he takes the day off of work to take him a doctor. It doesn't help.

Then one night you have another nightmare. You see Pony in a casket, you see a jungle and hear machine gun coming from a helicopter, you see an elephant. It's all so real.

Your entire body freezes and you feel something heavy, lie on top of your chest. You're going to die. You want to move, you want to get this thing off of you, but can't, you're trapped seeing your brother's dead body in front of you.

His scream breaks through your nightmare. It's the worst sound you've ever heard in your entire life. Pony is shaking like a leaf. He throws the covers off, he lets out a piercing scream.

You've never ever want to hear that sound from anyone.

You're helpless to stop his pain or yours, you couldn't save your parents, you might not be able to save Pony or save Darry, or Steve or anyone. All you can do is watch the people you love most in the world suffer. You're pathetic and worthless. You look up at the ceiling towards the Heavens, "I hate You."

You're not yourself. Usually you can always see the bright side, but it's getting so much harder now.

With everything you have you force yourself out of bed. Your legs feel like lead. You lean over his bed. Damn, he's so skinny. In the most soothing, calming voice you can muster, you say in an even voice "it's okay Pony it's okay. You're just having a bad dream. You're in your bedroom and you're safe." You gently touch in arm.

Pony calms down.

Darry rushes into the room, a look of panic and fear on his face. That look on his face almost hurts you as much as Pony's nightmares. "What the hell happened?"

"We had a nightmare," you say. You know Darry doesn't get just how true that statement is.

He walks over to Pony and pushes his hair back. "Are you okay, kiddo?" Darry's voice has a gentleness that you don't hear very often from him, and even though it's directed at Pony, you feel somewhat comforted by his presence.

Pony nods, but Darry hesitates. "You sure? You can always crash with me, if you need..."

Pony shakes his head, "nah, I'm fine."

Darry heads back to his own room. You hope he gets some shut eye, between the funeral, the guardianship papers, his job and just the normal household stuff, Darry has hardly slept at all these past two weeks.

You're about to head back to your bed, when Pony grabs you by the elbow, "Soda, you think you can stay here with me?" He looks embarrassed, but you grin and mess with his hair, "scoot over. You better not be a cover hog."

He is.

But, that doesn't matter. You spend most of the night sitting on the corner of his bed, watching him sleep, listening to him breath. Once you're positive that he's okay, you get some sleep.

You don't have anymore nightmares that night, more importantly, neither does he.

The next night you talk to Darry about sharing a bed with Pony. "I dunno, it seemed to help him a lot last night."

Darry sighs, "That's a lot for you to take on. Especially when you have your own schoolwork and your job. I'm his broth-guardian, I should be the one that helps him."

For such a smart guy Darry is awfully dense. How did he not see how much he helps Pony already?

You hate when people doubt you. "What, like I can't handle it? Come on Darry, I'm in the room with him already. If he has a nightmare, I'm gonna be up anyways. Besides, if you and Pony try sharing a room, we're gonna have the damn police up in here from all the fighting" You cringe, remembering the last time the police knocked on your door. But Darry gives a little smirk.

"Okay, but if it gets too much for you, just let me know. Got it?" He sighs with relief and you finally realize just how taxing Pony's nightmares have been on him. "Thanks man. I don't know what I would do without you."

You grin, "probably save a lot of money on food."

"Ain't that the truth" Darry deadpans. It isn't much, but it's the first time since your parents died that Darry jokes.

As soon as Darry is out of view your grin turns into a scowl. You're such a phony. It isn't Pony who needs you, you need Pony.

That night you ask Pony if he would like to share a bed, "I mean, just for a little while, just until your dreams stop. It seemed to work last night." You try to keep your voice casual and calm.

You're prepared for Pony to get all angry and complain that he's not a dumb little kid. Pony is a great kid, but he's stubborn as hell.

You're not prepared for how quickly Pony says yes. You feel horrible. Just how bad were Pony's nightmares?

After adjusting the covers (he loves them, you hate them) and dealing with him rolling over on top of you (he's not so skinny when his fully body weight in on top of your chest.) the two of you fall asleep.

That night, for the first time in a long while, you don't have a nightmare. Just being close to your brother makes you feel better. More importantly, Pony doesn't have a nightmare.

It's a Saturday and you sleep in late. You have a job interview at the DX, but it's not until 4:00.

You walk into the kitchen and see Ponyboy with two cigarettes in his mouth, playing a game of Solitaire.

You roll your eyes at him, and let out a yawn, you wonder how much of Darry's money is going towards cigarettes.

"Well, good morning, sunshine." He gives you a smirk that makes him look exactly like Steve.

You playfully slap him on the side of the head.

"You sleep good, Pony?"

He smiles at you, "yeah, thanks to you." It's the first time since your parents died that you've seen him smile.

But, you don't deserve it. You're Pony's brother, of course you're gonna help him. Pony and Darry don't know the whole story, they don't know about your nightmares, they don't know just how much _you_ need Ponyboy.

Pony takes a bite of chocolate cake, "hey Soda, you want a slice?"

Chocolate cake for breakfast? If feels wrong. You're mom would never allow dessert for breakfast. But, she's not here now, is she? Besides, you're pretty crazy about chocolate.

"Yeah, cut me a piece."

Pony returns with a huge slice and places it in front of you. You look at his own slice, it is meager in comparison.

Once again, Pony gives you so much more than he takes.

* * *

You sign away your life at the Recruitment office. You think about what you're going to tell Darry, but you're proud of your decision. You know your dad would be proud of you. Walking home, for the first time since you were sixteen you think about your nightmares. You think about your parents dying in a car crash, you think about Pony dying in the jungle. You shudder.

 _Vietnam._

You haven't thought about that nightmare since that night. You've blocked it from your memory, it's too painful. Too scary. _Too real._

An idea comes to your mind. You're not sure exactly how it works, or even if it will work. But, if your nightmare about Ponyboy dying in Vietnam is right, maybe you can make a bargain to take his place.

It's selfish. You know that if you die, Darry and Pony would mourn and miss you, but not nearly as much as you would if something happened to them.

Suddenly the prospect of being shipped to Vietnam doesn't seem so scary.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns,**

 **thanks for R &R, truly appreciate it.**

 **Still doing a lot of testing with different narrative forms/structures with this story, so I apologize for any disjointedness. If anything is unclear, please feel free to PM me.**

 **Edited for errors, because boy oh boy, did it need it! ;)**


	4. A Grand Bargain

The recruitment officer's promise that I wouldn't be shipped over to Vietnam if I signed up turned out to be a lie, because here I am. Army hair cut and all. I look pretty good with short hair, better than I thought I would. It makes me look tougher.

I'm sitting on my bunk, taking a drag out of my cigarette-4th one of the hour, and I can see why Pony is such a weed fiend, once you start, it's kind of hard to stop. Even the warning on the cigarette package, "Cigarettes may be hazardous to your health" doesn't stop me from puffing away.

Everyone smokes around here, sometimes out of fear, sometimes out boredom, and sometimes just because everyone else is doing it and you don't want to be the odd guy out. I reckon I smoke for all three reasons.

Cigarettes are hot commodities around here. Especially cigarettes rolled with Marijuana. They're used to barter with, and work as sort of an underground currency, especially out in the field with the Vietnamese. They apparently love cigarettes even more than we do. I'm not sure what the current going rate is, all I know is that my stash makes me, for the first time in my life, one of the richest guys here.

 _"Dear Two-Bit,_

 _Can you beleive that over here I'm rich! Seriously they use cigarettes over here for trade and shit, and with my cartons (thanks guys!) I'm the richest guy here. Just imagine Two-Bit, I'm a Soc. Don't forget to send me my smoking pipe, english tobaco, and sweater! Ha, Ha._

 _Talk to you later, buddy_

 _Sicerley,_

 _Sir Sodapop Patrick Curtis_

* * *

Darry of course knew that I was going to be shipped off to Vietnam, because when does Darry Curtis NOT know the score? I told my brothers that I signed up to join the Army the evening I came back from the recruitment office. BOTH Darry and Ponyboy had the exact same reaction. They both dropped their forks, at the exact same time and said, in unison, 'shit.'

It would have been pretty funny if the situation wasn't so serious.

"Are you out of your fucking goddamn mind Sodapop Curtis?" Darry is yelling and glaring at me in a way that he hasn't done in years-if ever.

"The guy at the recruitment office told me that if I sign up for service I wouldn't have to be sent over to Vietnam. I can pick my locale." I say this in my most calm, rational voice ever. I'm proud of myself that I manage not to start yelling right back at Darry, because I kind of want to.

Darry chortled and looked like he was going to choke on something, even though his mouth was empty, "yeah and where do you think they're gonna send you Soda? Club Med?"

Pony makes a little whimpering sound and he looks at me with huge saucer eyes, his expression caught between anger and fear. I look away from him. For some reason it's easier for me to look at Darry when I'm disappointing my brothers, I have a longer history of letting Darry down.

I'm getting angry. Not at Darry, but at myself, because he's making perfect sense. I think about it. I never signed any papers that said I would go to any place EXCEPT Vietnam. Besides, I'm a high school drop out with little prospects and no family, why wouldn't they send me to Vietnam to be cannon fodder?

"Darry, if I didn't sign up, I'm likely to get drafted anyways. This way, I serve one year and I'm home free. Besides, I bet the war is gonna end even before I get there."

I can see Darry is thinking this over and I feel some relief, because I know my argument makes sense. So, I'm not really prepared for what he says next.

"You should just go to Canada."

I never thought I would live for the day when Darry Curtis tells another man to run from a fight and hide.

"Shit, Darry. Half of the guys in our neighborhood are already signing up to join the Army. It's the only way out of this place for the 95% of us who ain't smart like you and Pony."

"You're smart Soda..." Pony begins. Ah, poor kid, he's STILL trying to convince me that I'm smart, two years after I dropped out of school.

"You ain't like the other guys around here," Darry says this in such a low voice, I can barely hear him.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Darrel Curtis? I'm not a pussy. And even if I was drafted, I certainly ain't a fucking coward running up to Canada like a pansy." I feel rage building up inside of me. I am a good fighter, a damn good fighter, and Darry knows that.

"You're a great fighter, but newsflash kiddo, fighting in Vietnam ain't exactly like getting into a rumble with the goddamn Brumly Boys."

I don't have anything else to say, so I look down at my mashed potatoes, "listen, I'm probably ain't gonna be sent to Vietnam anyways. So, you can just shut up about the entire Vietnam thing."

Darry gets up and knocks his chair over. "I need to get out of this place." He looks at me and shakes his head, "goddamnit Soda." He slams the door and in a few minutes, I can hear the vroom of his truck.

Pony storms out of the kitchen and I can hear the door to our bedroom door slam so hard the entire house shakes.

* * *

When we were little kids, Mom used to call Pony my shadow, because he would follow me around everywhere. Now, at sixteen and eighteen we look so much alike, he's more like my twin. He has a better build than I do, and he's already my height, I think he's better looking too.

After about thirty minutes, I decide to check on how he's doing.

"Hey there Pony, how you doin?"

He puts on the most plastic-fake grin I've ever seen and gives me the thumbs-up sign. "Just peachy-keen Soda, I just found out that my favorite person in the world has signed up to join the Army and is probably gonna get shipped off Vietnam." _Geez Louise_ the sarcasm from that kid.

He sits up and looks at me, "come on, tell me Soda, why did you really sign up?"

I shrug, "it's just like I told you, I probably won't be shipped off to Vietnam, I'll make money, I can help put you through college, might be able to help Darry as well." I don't tell him the part about being bored with the DX, or wanting an adventure, or even about not wanting to have my regrets about not serving-like Dad did.

He shakes his head at me, "you know that if something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to go to college, right? So don't say you're doing this for me, because if something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to take it." His voice breaks at the end, and I just about hate myself right now.

It's funny how a few hours ago serving seemed like the rational, logical, mature decision, now it seems like the worst decision I could have ever made.

"Pony," I say softly, more for his sake than mine, "they ain't gonna send me to Vietnam. I'm probably gonna get sent over to East Germany, maybe I'll meet some pretty German girl there." I try to grin at him, but he's having none of it.

"Come on Soda, the only people they send over to Vietnam are poor guys, Negroes and Puerto Ricans. And even if they do send you elsewhere, it will probably be to Laos or Cambodia, and the war would probably break out there too." His voice rises to a high pitch at the end, and it makes him sound so much younger than just fifteen.

My eyes pop, I had no idea Ponyboy knew so much about what was going in Vietnam. Laos? Cambodia? I never even heard of these places. What, were they countries? My brother is the smartest person I know, but mostly he just reads poetry and fiction. I never figured him for being into politics.

"It's only for a year Ponyboy. I ain't gonna be sent over to Vietnam, but _IF_ I am, I can handle it."

His eyes narrow, and I know that look. It's the bullshit detector that both he and Darry inherited from Mom.

"Why are you so calm, Soda? They could send you over to a war zone and you're acting so damn calm... Shit, you _want_ to go to Vietnam, don't you Soda?"

I turn away from him, I can't look at him right now. "No, I don't want to go to Vietnam, but there are somethings can be worse than going to war."

"Like what?" His voice is harsh and even though my eyes are looking down at our floor, I can feel his eyes bear down on me.

 _Like, seeing your kid brother's mangled body in a coffin. Like seeing your kid brother blown to kingdom come. That is so much worse._

"Pony, this ain't gonna make much sense..."

He snorts.

"Jesus, Pony, I'm tryin' to explain something to you. Can't you shuttup, just for one minute?"

He sighs, "I'm waitin'."

"Okay, I don't know how to explain this. But, if you thought that someone you loved was in danger and maybe you could make a deal with God or whoever to take their place, wouldn't you do it?"

I feel my shoulders drooping, I'm not so good at explaining things like this. Maybe that's because unlike Ponyboy I hardly think about dreams or God. I'm good with people, and I'm good with things that are happening right in the here and now, but not with the big picture.

Because I know my brother, I can see how scared and hurt he is, even though all I can feel his is anger.

"I know it don't make much sense kiddo, and I don't even understand it all myself. But, I just have a _feeling_ that _if_ I am sent to Vietnam, it's because I'm suppose to be sent there. I know it sounds crazy. But for me, going to Vietnam, even getting killed, ain't nearly as bad as what might happen if I don't go."

He just shakes his head at me. "What, this little deal you've made with God, did you get in writing? Cuz if you didn't, I think He's likely to screw you over. We ain't exactly his favorite people, you know."

I involuntarily cringe, I'm not that religious, but just hearing Ponyboy Curtis say "God" and "screw" in the same sentence makes me sad, especially when I think of all the times he went to church as a kid, even after Mom and Dad died. He finds peace and solace in that place in a way the rest of us, save Mom, never could.

"What was your dream about, Soda?"

I blink at him. "Huh?"

"Your dream. You say that you thought you have a loved one in danger, and you could make a bargain with God to take their place. I want to know what you dreamed about?"

"Who says it was a dream?" I'm a horrible liar, as Steve, and anyone who's ever played poker with me can confirm.

"Because I have 'em too. After Mom and Dad were killed I started getting these real horrible nightmares. I remembered them too."

"I thought you said that you couldn't remember your dreams?"

He shakes his head, "some of 'em I really couldn't remember, but some of them were so horrible, they were all I could think of."

I sit on his bed, and put my arms around him, "what do you dream about Pony?"

He gulps, and tears start rolling down his cheeks. "I dreamed about you, Soda. I dreamed about you dyin', I dreamed about you..." His voice gets caught in his throat, and I squeeze his shoulder.

"I dreamed about you getting killed. I dunno. I can't even remember how, but all I know is that you get killed. And it scared me Soda, it scared the shit out of me. So, I asked God that if my dreams are signs of what's to come, that maybe He can take me instead. You know, sort of a grand bargain."

"Oh, Ponyboy. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Dammit, why didn't I try to figure out what was bothering my brother all these years ago?

"I ain't worth it Soda. If you made some sort of deal with God to take my place, I ain't worth it."

 _Oh, God. Yes, you are Ponyboy, I would completely lose it if something happened to you._

"Yeah, kiddo, you're worth it. You, Darry and Steve, are all worth it."

"Soda," he moves my arm off his shoulder, "can you just leave me alone for a bit, I think I just wanna be by myself." His voice is bitter and he won't look at me.

I get up off his bed and walk towards the door. He lies on his bed and with one hand behind his head and the other hand reaching out for a cigarette.

I close the door to give him some privacy, and to prevent him from getting chewed out by Darry if he happens to catch Pony smoking in bed.

I think about Pony's nightmares, about me. I guess me and Pony have more in common than just looks. I sigh and for the first time in my life, I hope that God will answer my prayer and not my brother's.

* * *

Darry comes home around 10:00, I know because I'm out on our couch, waiting up for him. He asks me to come out on the front porch.

I'm taken back to that night after Mom and Dad died. Pony is pacing our bedroom, but Darry and I are sitting outside talking about what we're going to do, about the guardianship papers and everything.

" _What do you need Darry? Anything. Just let me know what you need. You ain't gotta it all by yourself." He's silent for a few minutes. I know Darry, he doesn't like asking for help from anyone._

 _"I need you to look after Pony for me, Soda. I don't know how to handle a little kid. Look after him, look after yourself too, little buddy. It's going to be tough, but if we hang together, we'll be alright." He seems so unsure of himself._

 _I give him a pat on his back and nod,_ _of course I'm gonna look after Ponyboy, it's what I've been doing since the day he was born._

 _"What about you, Darry? How are you doing?"_

 _He shakes his head, "don't worry about me Soda. I'll be okay, just look after yourself and Pony."_

 _I decide right then that Darry Curtis is the most stubborn and least selfish person I've ever known in my life._

"Hey, Pepsi-Cola," his voice is soft and even, although I can smell a very faint trace of beer on his breath.

Before I have a chance to sit down or say something, he buries his head in his hands and he starts sobbing. It's the harsh sob of a man whose gone through way too much in life.

"If something happened to you, Soda, I wouldn't be able to take it. I have nothing. You know I love you more than anyone in this world? Right, kiddo? I love you even more than I loved Dad."

I know Darry loves us, but he's not the kind of guy who's very good at expressing his emotions. I don't think I've ever heard him be this honest or raw before.

He's still sobbing, although he's doing a very shitty job of trying to hide it.

In that moment, our roles reverse, he's the emotional one, and I'm the calm one. "Darry, ain't nothing gonna happen to me. Besides, I promise you, I'm not gonna be shipped off to Vietnam. It's going to be okay. And don't say that you have nothing if I leave, Darry. You have so much, you got Ponyboy, you got Two-Bit and Steve, you got Gretchen. Everything is going to be okay."

He looks up and stares at me, he looks and sounds exactly like a little kid, "how do you know, Pepsi-Cola. How on earth do you know?"

The thing is, I don't know.

All of my life, Darry has looked after me. It's more than just beating up schoolyard bullies on my behalf, although that certainly ain't nothing to sneeze about, but just being around Darry makes me feel that no matter how crappy things get, everything is going to work out in the end.

And once again, I take all that's he's given me, his protection, calmness, sense of ease, and throw it right back in his face.

I look out at the horizon, in the distance, although it's real dark outside, I can sort of see the old lot we used to hang out in.

"Darry, when I'm gone, look after Ponyboy and please man, look after yourself too."

I know he'll look after Ponyboy, he adores that kid, hell it's kinda hard not too. But, I also know that Darry isn't going to look after himself. He's always going to put everyone else ahead. He gives me a half-hearted grin.

"That's what I said to you after Mom and Dad died."

I couldn't believe that he remembered that conversation.

"Yeah, well it was good advice then, and good advice now."

The two of us don't say a thing, if you know someone as well as Darry and I know each other, sometimes you don't gotta talk. We just look up at the stars, silent and waiting.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**

 **Thank you so much for R &R. :)**

 **Edited: misspelled Brumly**


	5. Steve

**_My first gander at writing a non-Curtis gang member. Still doing some experimentation with different timelines/narrative forms. Hope you enjoy my very creative chapter title! ;)_**

* * *

 ** _Vietnam, 1967_**

My best buddy Steve is having hard time ever since I went to Nam. I don't blame him. I mean, if it was me at home and him over here, I'd be scared shitless. He's getting into a lot of fights at bars, pool halls and the likes, even though he's still ain't legal age yet. But most of the bars on the east side don't check your ID, as long as you pay your tab. He don't tell me about the fights, but I hear about 'em through Two-Bit and his girl, Evie. I'm worried about him. I know Evie is real worried about him too.

Steve's a real good fighter, maybe he don't look like it, he's tall and lanky, but he can knock you to the ground before you even know what hit you. He's got a mean right hook too. I'm not worried about him losing a fight, but I ain't itching to hear about ending up in jail. Especially since some of those guys end up here.

He ends his letters to me "be careful."

Be careful! Shit, he's got me all worried he's gonna be spending the rest of the time I'm here in and out of the Cooler and he's tellin' _me_ to be careful?

So I write back to him,

 _"Be careful! Ha buddy! I should be telling you the same thing. I think you seen more fighting than me."_

Steve also includes pictures from girlie magazines with his letters.

 _"Hey Soda,_

 _I thought you could use some good old fashion American T &A while you're blasting Charlie to kingdom come."_

Now you see why he's my best friend.

* * *

 _ **Tulsa**_

I'm five the first time I lay eyes on Sodapop Curtis, and I ain't impressed. I first see him at this little dinky neighborhood park. The park ain't nothing to write home about; it's just a slide, two shitty swings, some monkey bars and a sandbox, but it's the only park we got.

I've been going to the park by my lonesome since I was four.

The other kids all have their mamas with them, but my mom ain't exactly the most motherly type. Don't get me wrong, she ain't a complete fuck up like Johnny and Dally's ol' ladies were, she just ain't the type of mom I want to bring to the park with me.

Besides, I feel pretty tough crossing two streets on my own, like I'm a big kid, or some stupid shit like that.

I don't play with any of the other kids. Besides, why would I want to play with a bunch of dumb babies who still need their mamas hovering over them?

One day as I'm in the sandbox, digging my way to China, when I hear this little kid start yelling at this blonde lady, "Mom, watch me! Watch me mom! I'm gonna do it! Are you watchin' me Mama?"

The kid has long blonde curls and his face almost reminds me of little girl. But even though he's got a cowboy hat on his head and a toy pistol in his pocket, he's the sissiest kid I'd ever seen. I touch my buzz cut, and I'm glad as hell my mom don't let me grow out my hair.

The lady wasn't watching him cause she was too busy running after some real little kid who thought it would be a smart idea to chase a pigeon into the street.

The little sissy tries to climb up on the slide-backwards, but lost his balance and ended up falling. He ain't even hurt much. But, I expected him to start bawling. You know what he did? He laughs. Honest to God, the little sissy falls off the slide and he just laughs. I ain't never seen a kid who falls down and laughs. When I fall down I get angry, especially when people stare at me and ask me where my mother is.

 _None of your business._

At that point, I usually point to some random lady and say that she's my mother. They leave me alone after that.

His mom, with the little kid in her arms, runs towards him and the little sissy yells, "don't worry, Mom, I'm okay! It's just a little fall."

He laughs again, and I couldn't decide if he's annoying or brave. He shows his mom his skinned knee and says "pretty neat, huh?" The little kid looked at the sissy's skinned knee and bursts into tears and you'd think he was the one who fell off the slide.

* * *

Two years later thanks to an administrative error, there are too many kids in Mrs. Bush's 2nd grade class and not enough kids in Miss. Simpke's class, so the sissy and three other brats get transferred to my class.

He has a crew-cut and without the blond curls, he don't really look like a sissy anymore, but since I don't know his name and don't really care to find out, I still call him 'sissy' in my head.

Miss. Simpke sits the sissy right next to me.

"Hiya! My name is Sodapop, what's your name?" He has a big toothy grin, and I think he looks like a jack-o-lantern.

 _Well, that's a stupid name._

"Why do you got such a stupid name?" I sneer at him. Honestly, "Sissy" would be a better name than Soda.

He shrugs, rather good-naturedly considering I just insulted him.

"I dunno, that's what my Dad named me. I got a little brother named Ponyboy, he's in Kindergarten. I have a big brother named Dairy too, he's in the fifth grade."

I glare at Miss. Simpke. Great, she put next to this weirdo kid named Sodapop with his brothers named Dairy and Ponyboy.

As much as I don't want to talk to this weirdo kid, I got a question for him. "Why didn't your parents name your little brother Apple Juice or nothing like that?"

He looks sort of confused, "huh?"

Oh boy, was this kid slow.

"Your name is Soda, your brother is named Dairy, why didn't your parents name your other brother after a drink?"

He bursts out laughing, "oh, no, Darry is short for Darrel, he was named after my Dad."

Well that explained that name, but "Soda" "Ponyboy", geez.

My ol' man ain't nothing to write home about, but at least he didn't name me Pretzel or some crap like that.

Soda Curtis cannot sit still. He's constantly bumping into me, his elbows knocking into my desk space, his feet accidently kicking my legs, and always with the same toothy grin and cheerful laugh, "sorry Stevie!"

He makes me real mad. He can't pay attention either, and he's always trying to talk to me. He can't even sing quietly. He's the only kid I know who sings Frères Jacques at the top of his lungs, even the part about "are you sleeping, are you sleeping." He sings way off key too. It's pretty damn embarrassing, especially with half the class turns to look at you. I always make sure I move away from him, I don't want no one to think that's me singing.

I've just about had it with Sodapop Curtis and his stupid name and his stupid chatting and loud singing. After a week, I decide that I'm gonna ask Miss. Simpke to change my seat.

That morning he gives me a big grin and offers me a blueberry muffin. "My mom baked too many, so we got to take some to school. You want one?" His mouth is filled with muffin and his teeth and tongue are stained purple.

I hesitate. I know it ain't right to take something from a kid I'm trying to get rid of, but boy, do I love blueberry muffins.

"Yeah. Thanks," I say as I savor the flavor of Mrs. Curtis's blueberry muffins. They have this crumbly, brown-sugar topping and I close my eyes, savoring the sweet taste.

Blueberry muffin or not, I'm still planned on asking Miss. Simpke get me away from Soda Curtis.

I can't wait for the day to end so I can ask that Miss. Simpke change my seat, or better yet, send that Soda Curtis kid away. Hey, maybe he can rejoin Mrs. Bush's class? Ain't like one more kid is gonna hurt them.

While Miss. Simpke is up at the blackboard writing sentences for us to copy, I make a paper airplane, it's a real neat model too, and I draw fins on it and everything. I plan on throwing it into Mary Ann Melbourne's hair, but my paper airplane is a bit too good, because it ends up hitting Miss. Simpke right in the ass.

Half of the kids giggle, half of the kids make 'oooh' sounds.

"Okay, who threw that?!" She turns and faces us, her hands on her hips and her glasses pushed down so far they're almost falling off her face; and if you've ever seen a shriveled up witch of a lady lose her temper, you know what she looked like.

Everyone is looking right at my corner of the room. I want to start to cry, because if I get sent down to the Principal's office and my Dad finds out, I'm gonna get a beating like you wouldn't believe.

To my surprise, Soda stands up, "I threw it Miss. Simpke. I'm sorry." He gives her such a sincere smile that I swear she almost smiles back at him.

She catches herself, "well since you like throwing stuff so much, you can help me throw away the trash every day this week."

Soda nods and sits back down.

"Whydya do it? Why did you say you was the one who threw the airplane?" This Soda kid is pretty stupid I figure, taking punishment for something he didn't do.

He looks at me like I'm the dumbass, he shrugs, "cause you're my friend."

Friend? I didn't even like him, I've been trying to get rid of him.

A few seconds later he leans over and whispers to me, "can you teach me how to make a paper airplane? The ones I make ain't never get off the ground."

* * *

All these years later my impression of Sodapop Curtis hasn't changed much, he's still the most decent and most loyal guy I know, and he can't sit still to save his life.

He asked me to meet him at this old park we used to take Evie and Sandy to back in high school. I drive my car there, but I'm surprised to see Soda on foot. I guess he has too much energy and wants to walk it off.

He bounces his left leg up and down and I'm this close to smacking him, when he tells me he joined the army.

When he tells me that he joined the Army, I'm torn between loyalty and honesty. For me, there ain't no better qualities in a friend than loyalty and honesty, if you don't have those qualities, you don't got nothing.

 _You joined the Army, what the hell were you thinking?_

He looks at me like a golden retriever puppy waiting to get praised.

I think about Soda, about how from that day in Miss. Simpke's 2nd grade class until today he's always gone to bat for me. Always gone to bat and defended me, even if, _especially if_ , I don't deserve it. I decide that it's time to repay back his years of loyalty.

"Cool enough, Soda."

He sighs with relief, and you can just see this weight being lifted off his shoulders.

"My brothers don't think it's a good idea. Pony ain't talking to me and Darry ain't doing good at all."

I'm not surprised that Pony is throwing a temper tantrum, but Darry? That surprised me.

I'm getting mad at Soda's brothers for acting like such assholes.

I shrug my shoulders, "hey, don't worry what they think. You're doing what's best for you. Why did you sign up?" I hope that for his sake, I kept the bitterness out of my voice.

"Lots of reason, we need money for Pony to go to college…"

 _Damn_ , I should have known. I should have known that little brat was behind all of this. He probably started to complain and cry about it was so unfair that he couldn't go to college, blah, blah, blah. Well, you know what? Suck it up buttercup.

"Screw the kid!" I don't mean to say it out loud. Not because I don't mean it, but because Soda thinks the kid is hot shit and actually gets _hurt_ when anyone suggests that maybe Ponyboy Curtis ain't some fucking angel.

Soda crosses his arms and stares me down the way he only does when I insult one of his brothers, let's just say I ain't exactly a stranger to that look.

"Knock it off Steve," his voice is cool and stern.

I run my fingers through my hair, this was all happening so fast. "You know if you needed more hours at the DX you could have always taken over my shifts. I would give them to you, no questions asked."

He gives me a slight smile, "yeah, then I would be working 24 hours a day."

 _Better than being over in 'Nam._

I get an idea. "I'm signing up with you. If you're going, so am I."

Soda shakes his head, and in a serious tone that I ain't use to hearing from him, looks me straight in the eye: "No, you're not Steve. Listen, I don't even know where they're sending me, okay? They might not send me to Vietnam since I've volunteered for the Service. Besides, even if I was sent to Vietnam, the very last thing I need is to have you there with me, you dig? I'm going to have to think about my own survival, but if you go to 'Nam, you're all I'm going to be thinking of. If something happened to you while we're over there, how do you think I'm gonna to handle it? Huh? I couldn't forgive myself. Just stay here, marry Evie, live your life, man."

 _Like my life would be worth shit without you in it._

Hot tears burn my eyes, "it just, I feel like I should be there for you."

"You are, buddy. But, if you really want to support me, you'll stay here. That's the support I need from you. Besides, even if you do sign up, it ain't like they're going to put us in the same unit or something. Hell, we might not even end up in the same country."

Damn, when did Soda Curtis become so logical?

"You know, I really did think about joining. I mean, I had my own reasons for joining. I didn't just sign the papers blind," he says in almost a whisper.

One thing Soda hates, and I hate as well, is people thinking he's dumb. Okay, maybe he can't spell that great and he always struggled in school, but Soda is not a dumb guy at all, especially when it comes to understanding people.

"Yeah, I know."

"I'm gonna miss ya, Steve." He looks like he's gonna sob.

Soda is my best friend and I love him more than anyone in this world, but I don't know how to deal with this sappiness.

But, for Soda's sake, and only for Soda's sake, I try.

I give him a hug and it's awkward as shit, but it's the best I can do.

"Hey, you ain't leaving yet, save your tears for when you go off to Boot Camp." I try to laugh, but I'm only marginally better at making a joke than I am at comforting someone.

 _I sure hope he don't cry like this in the Army._

He shakes his head and laughs, "Aw, you know me man, just trying to get all of my tears out of the way."

Without missing a beat he continues "hey buddy, let's listen to some music, something real upbeat too; none of this sad shit for me. Come on, we should be celebratin'."

We get in my car, and he fumbles with the radio until he finds a station he likes, he begins to sing at the top of his lungs. He still can't sing worth shit.

* * *

We got these new lights at the DX, they're real bright, because apparently when customers come in for an oil change they want to see the grease under their mechanic's fingertips. Soda has the day off, so I spend most of my time yelling at some stupid half-wit replacement named Nick, who wouldn't know a carburetor if it bit him the ass.

I'm relieved and somewhat surprised when I see Soda stand under the new lights. What the hell was he doing here?

That surprised turned to disappointment when I saw it was Ponyboy. Ponyboy is okay, I guess, he just ain't and never will be, Soda. But, he's a good fighter, loyal and now that he's getting older, has kinda a good sense of humor, when you ain't the butt of his sarcastic comments.

Not that I would ever tell him that. Wouldn't want it to go to his head, the way his brothers praise and baby him, it's big enough as it is.

But even if I disliked him, and I gotta admit, there were times, especially when he was younger, that was the case, I still got a soft spot for him-if only because he's Soda's kid brother.

Seeing how much Pony looks like Soda just reminded me of what a poor imitation of Soda the kid really was. I know he can't help it, but it's hard to reconcile the kid who is the spitting image of Sodapop act all bratty and snarky like Pony sometimes does.

But I shouldn't be one to talk, with my hot temper I ain't nothing like Soda either.

You can see the attitude dripping off of Ponyboy and remembering what Soda said about his brothers being mad at him for joining the Army, I'm getting pissed off at the brat.

"Curtis!" I yell in the most hard-ass tone I can manage, "get over here." I rarely call Ponyboy by his last name, but I wanted him to know that I meant business.

"Yeah, what do you want, _Randle_?" He crosses his arms and glares at me, and he looks exactly Soda when he gets mad. But his voice has this harsh edge to it that I rarely hear from Soda. That's all Pony.

"What I want is for you to grow the fuck up."

He looks genuinely surprised. For some kid who is supposed to be a genius, he can be awful dumbass when it came to things that aren't in a book.

"What do you mean?" He eyes me wearily, but his arms are uncrossed.

"What do I mean? Your brother is out there ready to risk his life and you're acting like a fucking asshole, that's what I mean."

He shakes his head. "He shouldn't go Steve, I know it, you know it."

"Hey, hey, hey, don't be tellin' me what I think. I happen to know Soda Curtis and I know that he's gonna make one hell of a soldier. Besides, he's going over there for you, at least you could be grateful."

Pony looks genuinely surprised, "he told you?"

I'm getting mad; Pony acting like it's a big surprise that Soda talked to me. Hell, I am his best buddy.

"Yeah, he told me. Told me how he was goin' in the service just to get you the money to send you to college."

I don't know for sure, but I think I see him take a sigh of relief.

"I don't want him to go Steve. I told him that if he didn't…" his voice trails off. "I don't care about going to college, Steve, not without Soda."

I don't really care if the kid goes to Mars.

"Yeah, well he's fightin' for you, so maybe you could just be grateful and stop acting like such a whiny little bitch."

I never called Ponyboy Curtis a 'little bitch' before, and I got to admit after all of these years of dealing with the kid's attitude, if feels kinda good.

He glares at me, and boy can that kid glare. I'm surprised Darry don't lose his shit more often with the kid, with that attitude. But then, he loses the glare, loses all of his attitude and I just see Soda. "I'm gonna miss him so much, Steve."

He starts to tear up. It ain't much, just a few tears, but it's more than I feel like dealing with. He scowls at me, like it's my fault he's acting like a pussy.

I have to admit, it throws me for a loop. As much as a rag on the kid for being a pansy, he ain't, I don't think I've seen him tear up since Johnny and Dally died. You better believe it's damn embarrassing watching this shit go down.

I don't mind comforting Soda, I draw the line at hugging Pony especially in the middle of the DX.

This is getting real embarrassing, for him and me, and I swear there are people lookin' at us. I want to tell them to stop staring and mind their own damn business.

"Man up and stop your crying," I hiss at him and try to lean over him, but considering how tall he is now, I can't lord over him the way I used to. "He's gonna be okay. And when you go back to your house, lose the fucking attitude. You don't think Soda has enough to deal with without dealing with you being all morose and shit?"

His tears stop, "it ain't so easy Steve. I know a lot of guys in our neighborhood of joining the Army and I know Soda might not even end up in 'Nam, but I'm still scared."

He takes out a smoke and takes a few puffs. I would say he's trying to look cool after nearly crying, but the way the kid smokes, I think he just wanted to smoke.

Jesus Christ, who am I, the kid's shrink?

Of course I don't tell him that I'm scared too, that ever since Soda told me his news three nights ago, I haven't been able to sleep a wink. That I dream about going into the recruitment office and beating up the piece of shit officer who signed up my best friend. That if something happened to Soda, I wouldn't know how to deal.

Instead, I just shrug my shoulders, "that's life man, you win some, you lose some."

He shakes his head and walks out of the DX. Little punk. But, I notice that he walks out with less of an attitude than he walked in with.

Looks like my first impressions of Ponyboy Curtis were dead on as well, he's a selfish crying brat who takes away attention that rightfully belongs to Sodapop; and he cares about his brother more than I like to admit.

Not that I would ever tell him that, it would just go to his head.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton Owns**

 **Thank you for R &R, so much appreciated! **


	6. An Understanding

_**Tulsa 1966**_

I tried to think of a comeback or a sarcastic remark, but I couldn't. For somebody who is supposed to be smart and in the word of my eldest brother, "mouthy" I have this unique talent for getting tongue tied at just the right moments.

The best I could think of was the old standby favored by those Rhodes Scholars in training-the Brumly Boys, and tell Steve to go fuck himself; but I wasn't in the mood to get into it with him in the middle of the DX; besides an even worse thought came to my head…

 _Shit. Steve Randle was right._

Talk about taking a blow to your pride.

I dismissed him with a nonchalant shrug and walked out of the DX.

 _Yeah, that will show him._

All the way home, I thought about what he said, and yeah, I was acting like an asshole, but for Christ's sake, it's not like I could help it. The person I loved most in this world had decided to up and join the Army, most likely being shipped off to a war zone, without even consulting his own family. This wasn't like dropping out of school or staying out late at night, this was life or death.

What would Steve know about that? What would Steve know about how much Soda meant to me, to Darry?

I knew I was being shortsighted and cruel, but Steve Randle just had that special talent of bringing out the best in me.

Worst of all Soda joined, in part, _for me._

That was the real reason I could barely stand to look at him, the guilt gnawed away at me.

Darry refused to talk to me about Soda signing up. "He's eighteen and it's his decision, Pony."

 _Bullshit_ I wanted to tell him. Wasn't it you that just a few days ago told him to move to Canada?

But my brother's stint as Tulsa's Tom Hayden was short lived and now he refused to talk to me about how he really felt. Every time I tried to ask him how he was doing, his response was a terse, "I'm fine, Pony."

I knew that response, it meant that he is anything but fine, but my brother was like Ft. Knox when it came to his emotions, no one was allowed in unless he unlocked the vault.

I was so busy wallowing in self-pity that I didn't notice where I was going and nearly ran into Angela Shepard as I turned the corner.

"What the hell! Watch where you're going, there is a lady present!" She then proceeded to show off her delicate feminine sensibility by calling me a few choice adjectives.

"Sorry, Angela," I mumbled.

Angela turned around and faced me, all of a sudden her face turned soft and she let out a laugh. Angela twirled a strand of her long wavy black hair on her finger and looked, for a second at least, almost demure.

"Oh, Curtis, I didn't see you."

"Hey Angela."

"I heard about your brother," she practically flung herself at me and I stumbled backwards a few steps. I didn't want to be rude, but I didn't feel like talking to anyone, especially not Shepard's kid sister.

"Yeah, thanks Angela," I try to walk around her, but she grabbed a hold of my forearm.

I wished she would just leave me alone.

"I don't know what I'd do if Tim got sent over there, I'd just be so devastated."

She opened up her small silver purse, a direct gift from Curly Shepard and his talent for the five finger discount and an indirect gift from Froug's Department Store. I knew the backstory of Angela's purse because I was the unwilling decoy on that particular adventure. After fishing through her purse and pulling out her mascara, lipstick and eye shadow, she found a package of Wrigley's and spotted me a stick. I shook my head no; Angela just shrugged and popped the gum into her mouth.

She sure chewed loud.

 _First of all, Soda ain't gonna be sent "over there"_ _and yeah, you know exactly what you'd be doing, you be carrying on and causing trouble as always, Tim or no Tim._

"Well, he probably don't got anything to worry about Angela." I was getting kind of mad. Not really at Angela, but I was still mad at Steve for calling my bull and at myself for how I treated Soda this past week.

"Yeah," she looked at me with coy eyes, "now if they drafted Curly that would be a completely different matter, did you know what that little piece of shit said to me yesterday?" she lets out a bitter laugh, or as bitter of a laugh as is possible from a fourteen year old girl.

I rolled my eyes. I knew Angela was just putting on a show, cause if Curly did get drafted she would be devastated.

"Listen Angela, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I really got to be heading home now. Okay?"

She crossed her arms slightly and lets out an _hmph_ sound, her smile is tight and narrow, "well see you around, Curtis." She ran her hands through her hair; I never got how she managed that much hair, and turned around.

I think she might have turned around a few times to see if I was looking at her, but I couldn't be sure. I had more important things on my mind.

* * *

At home, my brother laid fully stretched out on his bed, his stocking feet hanging over the edge. He told me he liked to relax with his feet stretched over the bed. I tried it a few times, but it never did anything for me.

"Hey Soda,"

He sat up and grinned at me, "well if it isn't my favorite kid brother in the flesh, did ya get the stuff you wanted from the DX?"

"Huh?" Oh yeah, the entire purpose of me going to the DX in the first place was to load up on some pop, cigarettes, candy and chips, or as Two-Bit Mathews would call them, the 'four essential food groups.'

"Listen, Soda I want to apologize to you…"

He looked at me with surprise, "for what Pony?"

Now, normally when people ask you a question like this, they know exactly what you're apologizing for, they just want you to spell it out for them, but Soda looked genuinely surprised.

"Um, for the way I've been acting, you know, since…"

He cuts me off with a million dollar grin and a wave of his hand, "shit Ponyboy, you ain't got nothing to apologize for. I'm not sorry I signed up, but I am sorry I didn't talk to you or Darry beforehand, that wasn't cool of me."

"Besides," he lowers his voice like he's about to tell me a secret, "if you ever decided to pull a stupid stunt like that and up and joined the Army without telling no one, me and Darry would kill you."

 _Ha Ha_

I plop down on my own bed, and once again I'm reminded of all our late night talks we've had throughout the years.

"Can you tell me why you signed up Soda, I mean, why you really signed up?"

I still hadn't gotten over what my brother told me about "taking someone's place."

He sighed and swung his legs from under him. "there ain't one reason, Pony. I mean, it wasn't like I was planning on signing up when I walked into that place, but I'll only be gone for a year and sometimes I just feel like I need to get out of this place, ya dig?"

I nodded, but I had no idea.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I love you and Darry and Two-Bit and Steve and everyone, but sometimes I just wanna see more than just Tulsa. Plus, the DX just don't cut it for me anymore."

My eyes widened.

That surprised me, Soda always talked at dinner about the cars he and Steve worked on that day or some strange thing a customer did. He kept us in stitches with his stories.

"I thought you loved the DX?"

"Yeah, I did love it, but that was a year ago. But now, I don't know man, it just ain't cutting it for me. Don't get me wrong Pony, I'm always stoked to work with Steve and I still like working on cars and all, but it don't mean the same to me as it does to him, you dig?"

He quickly looked over at me, "don't tell Steve though, the DX means a lot to him, savvy?"

"Savvy."

I thought about what my brother said, and he could never stay with one thing for a long time. The only thing that ever kept his interest for more than just a passing phase was horses and rodeos.

"Hey Pony, remember during the Fourth of July and all 'em other parades when they had the Veterans marching through the streets? Remember how Dad used to always make himself scarce on those days?"

 _I remembered how Dad always made a big deal about setting off fireworks and using the grill, but Soda was right, he never went downtown to watch the parades with the rest of us._

"I don't think Dad ever got over not serving in the War," Soda looked kind of sad and longingly at me, as if he was channeling our father's disappointment.

"That wasn't his fault though! He tried to sign up but he was a 4F."

 _I knew that story, some wise guy got in a fight with my dad, always a bad idea, and left him with poor vision, a few missing teeth and some other issues. I remembered the first time I heard that story; I looked at my dad with large, shocked eyes. I couldn't believe that someone did a number like that on Dad._

" _Don't worry Pony," Dad said with a lopsided grin, "you oughta seen what I did to the other fellow."_

"Yeah," Soda said slowly, "but Dad didn't see it that way, he just saw it as something that he failed at."

"You ain't a failure Soda, if that's what you're thinking, it ain't true at all." I crossed my arms and glared at him. I said it with more anger and force than I intended, but I really hated it when Soda puts himself down.

He shook his head, and his eyes, usually gentle and laughing and full of life, just looked wistful, "I know Pony, I just don't wanna have any regrets in my life."

"What about the dream you had?" I fidget and look down at the old mushroom soup stain on our carpet. Ever since my brother made that cryptic comment about having a dream that he needed to take the place of someone he loved, I felt nothing but fear and guilt.

My brother sighed, "listen Pony, I didn't mean to scare you about the whole dream thing. But, if it makes you feel any better, I didn't join the Army cause of a dream or anything like that. I just know that being sent to Vietnam ain't the end of world for me."

He gave me a smile, and for a minute, I felt okay.

"That's what I'm afraid of, Soda, that you're not gonna be coming back. That this dream thing, and I know it sounds stupid, is a sign that something is gonna happen to you."

My brother grabbed my wrists and looked me straight in the eyes, if I thought Darry had a penetrating stare, he got nothing on Soda, "listen kiddo, I'm not going to do anything stupid over there, okay? And you better believe that no matter where I'm going, my only goal is to come back to you and Darry."

"I know, I just feel…"

Soda cuts me off, "you ain't got nothing to feel guilty about Ponyboy, you hear me?" He winced, "I'm so sorry kiddo that I scared you about the whole dream thing, it was real kooky, it probably don't mean nothing, okay? Just like your dream about me don't mean nothing, except you have too much of an imagination."

He winked and playfully punched me in the arm.

I let out a small laugh, "guess we sound like a couple of wackos all worried about some lousy nightmares. We could start our own business, 'Tough Hoods who have Kooky Nightmares, Inc."

Soda gave me a gentle pat on my arm, "you ain't a wacko, Pony. But, you need to let go of any guilt or worry you feel, cause it's not gonna help either one of us, okay? Just let it go Ponyboy, what's done is done. All you need to know is that there is nothing that can stop me from looking out for you. You got me for life, and it's gonna be a damn long life for both of us."

Looking into my brother's eyes I could see the weight of the world. He could be sent to a combat zone, but here he was worried about me. I had no right to do that to him.

"You ain't getting rid of me either."

"Good," he said and he pulled me into a hug. Unlike Darry and to a lesser extent, myself, Soda had no problems showing his affection and love for us by instigating hugs. I mean, he never really showed that side of himself in public, or even with the gang, but with his family, he was always a real affectionate and touchy feely guy.

I knew Tim and Curly Shepard love each other, but you better believe the only time you would ever find those two with their arms around each other would be when they're beating each other up, which is Shepardland _is_ a sign of affection.

But Soda always knew how to make me feel okay. I squeezed him back.

"We'll be in our nineties and still be hanging out together, you, me and Darry. I just hope you don't still keep on talking in your sleep at that age, Pone," he said with laugh.

I gasped with semi-mock indignation, "I don't talk in my sleep, Sodapop."

"Oh, no?" He cocked an eyebrow, "oh Cathy, do you wanna go out, Caaaattthhhhyyyy?"

I turned beat red. _Shit._

"Who is this _Cathy_ chick that's got my kid brother all tied up in knots?"

"Just some girl I've seen around, she's dating this other kid though, so I don't have a chance. Don't tell Darry though, I don't really need any lectures about the opposite sex."

Soda shook his head, "please Pony, you got half of the girls in our neighborhood falling all over you, I'm sure this other kid don't have nothing on you."

I rolled my eyes, I hardly bet I had a single girl who liked me, let alone half the neighborhood.

"How about some words of advice from your much cooler older brother," he asked with a bright grin.

I sighed. Having been a silent participant of the bull sessions between Soda, Steve, Two-Bit and Dally since I was thirteen, I wasn't really looking forward to Soda's 'advice.'

His voice turned serious, "if you do get with this Cathy chick or anyone else while I'm gone, wear a condom, okay?"

"Jesus, Soda I'm not gonna…" _Well this conversation was veering way off track._

He waved his hand at me and smirked.

"Yeah, that's what everyone says when they first start dating. Believe me; it happens faster than you think. Besides, I ain't itching to return in a year an Uncle."

I shook my head, "believe me, you ain't got nothing to worry about."

"Besides," Soda began, "Darry would kill you" "Darry would kill me" we said in unison.

We looked at each other and laughed. I still didn't completely agree with my brother's decision. But I could still support him, just like he's always supported me. I realized that my brother never told me what his dream was about, but I couldn't worry about that. All I could do was try to survive the next year or so without my brother and pray that he would come home to us.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Hopefully the scene between Soda and Pony wasn't TOO sappy or overdone. I know that this story is moving pretty slow, so I do appreciate everyone's who has stuck with it so far, as I try to figure out the ins and outs of the story. The timeline of this story takes place right at the beginning of the That Was Then This is Now story. I don't have a copy of the book in front of me, so I'm not sure if Cathy and Bryon were dating at the beginning of the book, but for my sake, I'm gonna say 'yes.' ;)**

 **I hope the timeline isn't too confusing. This chapter takes place right after Pony talks to Steve at the DX in the previous chapter, so after Soda signed up for the Service, but before he knows that he's heading to Vietnam.**

 **Froug's was a name of a department store in Tulsa, since closed.**

 **Little note: I was *this* tempted to call this chapter title, "You ain't wacko, Pony." ;)**

 **This chapter will overlap with the next chapter in my Mr. Curtis story, "Both Horse and Driver" once I get that chapter out. It's stuck in my head right now.**

 **Truly appreciate everyone who follows, favorites, reads and reviews, it really does mean SO much to me. :) I can't express my gratitude enough, except 'thank you!"**


	7. The Look

**A/N: Finally back to this story. Some catch-up for new readers: In the Fall of 1966 a newly turned 18 year old Soda joins the U.S. Army in part because the recruitment officer promises him he won't end up in Vietnam. That promise turns out to not be true. Soda has just completed a 16 week Boot Camp. This chapter takes place during a one-month break at home after Soda successfully completes Boot Camp, but before he's sent to Vietnam.**

 **And scene!**

* * *

My older brother returned from Basic with a buzz cut and a ticket to Vietnam.

I couldn't get over Soda's hair. I know it's just hair and all, but it's remarkable how different he looked without his long, silky dark-gold mop. This is gonna sound real crazy, but without his hair he didn't look like Soda anymore. That hair belonged to him as much as his eyes or his grin did, you dig? A lot of guys in our neighborhood stopped wearing hair grease by 1967 and some, like Darry, never wore grease in the first place; but until he joined the Army Soda continued to wear his hair long, slicked back and heavily greased.

With his new hair cut he managed to look both older and younger than his eighteen years. He had Darry and Dad's chin. I never noticed it before, but with hair cut like that, I could see a lot Dad in him.

That night as I was working on my homework, Soda leaned over my shoulder and snatched a Kool. when I gave him a look, he just shrugged, "got a taste for these while I was gone."

I shook my head, "they allowed you to smoke in Boot Camp?"

Soda plopped down on his bed and lit up, in between puffs he answered my question. "That's the only way I could get a break there. The drill instructors only gave smokin' breaks, you didn't smoke, you didn't get a break, simple as that."

I gave him an incredulous look. I knew how much smoking takes out of you, and I just ran track, never mind training for the U.S. Army, but Soda just shrugged.

"Hey, Pone, pass me the another cancer stick, will ya, buddy?"

I cringed. Did he really need to call them that? Not that I was going to quit. Hell, for me, not smoking would be like Two-Bit never taking another sip of beer, just ain't happening.

"You sure look different Soda, with your hair like that."

"Aw, shoot, Pony, it's just hair. If Elvis can handle it, I can take it."

He gives me a grin. It's still the same megawatt grin that he's always had, and I hope, always will have. Hair or no hair, he's still got that look.

* * *

 _(Early, the next morning)_

I didn't recognize my brother.

It's past midnight, I'm sitting at my kitchen table trying to get some reading done. I'm trying not to think of Soda going to Vietnam. Shipped off to Vietnam because he signed up to join the U.S. Armed Forces. _Fuck_.

Unlike Ponyboy, who can create worlds in his head, I have a lousy imagination. No matter what I do to distract myself, all I can think about is Soda.

"You okay, Darry?" I know that voice. It's Soda. I can feel his shadow hoover over me, his voice is even.

"Fuck no, I'm not okay Soda," I want to yell at him, but I don't. I keep my cool.

I grunt a very convincing 'yes,' not looking up from the article I'm reading, a tribute to Lenny Bruce.

I'm one of those rare birds who likes _Playboy_ for the pictures _and_ for the articles. Yeah, I know.

"You sure?"

I turn the page in my magazine, "yeah, I'm fine Soda." I could never hide my feelings from Soda, no matter how hard I tried.

Then I hear it, the smart-ass chuckle I've learned to, God-help-me, love, over the past few months. It's a chuckle that can belong to only one person, Ponyboy.

"Looks like you might be needin' some eyeglasses soon, ol' man." Pony is standing over me, his arms crossed, smirking. He gives me a playful punch on the shoulder, and when I look up he's still looking down, gloating at me. God, that kid annoys the hell out of me sometimes.

"Yeah, but I can still beat the shit out of you, kid." I'm grinning though. Sometimes it's nice to shit-talk with my little brother like we're just brothers. And not, well, whatever the hell we are to each other right now.

"Touche."

Pony grabs a chair, straddles it backwards and sits down. He gets a worried look in his eyes, and now he's looking only like himself. "I mean, your eyes are okay, you don't really need glasses, do you?" He types a rhythm on the table with his fingers, something he does when he's worried.

How Pony can go from sounding a cool as a cucumber one moment to a nervous wreck the next, I'll never know.

"My eyes are fine, Pony, it's my back we gotta worry about." I snap at him. I'm not Soda, I'm not good at comforting Pony.

"Oh." He looks down at his stocking feet and I mentally slap myself, I still have to remind myself that Pony is sensitive and has a tendency to take to heart every little comment.

"You really thought I was Soda, huh?"

I shrug my shoulders, "you look an awful lot like him at..." I squint at clock shaped like a cat that hangs on our kitchen wall, "1:20 in the morning."

Pony nods and for a second he looks almost sad, but maybe I'm imagining it. "Yeah, guess I do."

I take a good look at my brother. He's fifteen but he's gone through more in one year than most people have in a lifetime. I'm impressed by him. I don't tell him that as much as I should. I'm at loss when it comes to expressing that part of me, but that kid brother of mine is something else. People say that I'm strong and put together, but neither me nor Soda have anything on Ponyboy.

I love Pony, but I'm not really in the mood to express what I really feel, not now. Not with him. How can I tell him that I've been a nervous wreck ever since Soda told us his unit was being shipped off to Vietnam? How can I tell Pony that every time I look into his eyes all I see is Soda, and Soda isn't even gone yet? How can I tell him that I silently count down the days Soda has left at home? How can I tell him that I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that Soda isn't coming back to us? I can't do that to him. He may be far more mature at fifteen and a half than most kids, but he's still a kid. He doesn't need to carry my burdens for me. I should be the one he goes to for help, not the other way around.

So, like parents have done to their kids since the beginning of time, I lie to him. "I'm fine, Ponyboy." I don't bother giving him a fake grin, because it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm tired as shit just lying to him, never mind going through the motions of making the lie seem believable. Besides, the kid should be in bed, he had school in a couple of hours.

He opens his mouth slightly, as if he's going to say something, but then shrugs his shoulders, "okay."

I mess with the back of his head, which truthfully looks like he hasn't combed it for days. He doesn't believe me when I tell him that I'm doing okay, and I find a bit of comfort in that; my kid brother might be a great kid, smart as a whip and annoying at times, but he's not a chump.

* * *

Once Sodapop turned fourteen he began attracting girls like honey does bees, but at age six all he attracted were messes. It didn't matter if he was outside for five minutes or five hours, Sodapop would return home looking like he rolled around in a pigsty. His hair would snarl up into knots and rats' nests and every night my mom would have to comb out the dirt, chocolate and whatever other ornaments decorated my brother's hair.

It was pink bubble gum that finally pushed our mom over the edge.

"Bubble gum, how the heck did you get bubble gum in your hair Sodapop Curtis?" She had her hands on her hips and she looked exhausted.

I was four years old watching from the living room. Part of me liked seeing my brother in trouble, part of me was worried for him.

My mom tried to cut around the bubble gum, tried to use mayonnaise to get the gum out. The result was that Soda just ended up smelling like macaroni salad and the gum remained firmly in place. Finally, mom had enough and just shave the entire thing off.

"Soda," she said in a tired voice, while she swept up tufts of his hair off the kitchen floor; "I can't deal with your hair everyday, Do you know how exhausting it is? I have enough things on my plate. I just need a break, okay, darling?"

The way she said 'darling' Soda knew better not talk back to her.

Soda hated his haircut.

"I'm bald, Pony!"

I nodded, horrified at my brother's new look, "what if it don't never grow back, Soda? You'll be bald forever!" At age four I wasn't exactly the most comforting presence around.

Dad made the mistake of making a 'baldy' joke to Soda and Soda ended up running to our room in tears. Mom yelled at Dad. I put my hands over my ears, I never heard my parents yell at each other before. It scared me.

Darry, who probably wished he was adopted at this point, just continued to watch cartoons on T.V. as if nothing was happening.

I was angry at my Dad for teasing Soda, angry at my Mom for cutting Soda's hair, and angry at Darry for just watching cartoons and ignoring us all.

If my brother was going to be a 'baldy' I could at least make sure that he wasn't going to be a baldy alone. That evening while Soda, who was back to being his regular self, played Army men with Darry; I went into the bathroom, grabbed the scissors and gave myself a haircut.

Looking back now, I'm pleasantly surprised I didn't actually take out a chunk of my scalp.

Dad screamed when he saw me. "Jesus Christ, Ponyboy! What the hell have you done?"

I brushed the hair off the vanity. "I cut my hair, so I could be just like Soda."

Dad shook his head at me, "why the heck would you do that?" He was still hopping mad.

"'Cuz Soda is sad over the haircut Mommy gave him. Now he don't gotta be sad alone, we can be sad together."

My dad's jaw dropped and for a second I thought maybe I had accidentally said a bad word. My father got down on his knees and pulled me into a hug, "you're a good brother, Ponyboy. Soda's lucky to have you." He looked real proud.

* * *

Dad used to take us three boys hunting and camping all the time. First, he took just me, then Soda joined us, and a few years later, Pony came with. But I loved those trips when it was just Dad and me. He taught me how to hunt on those trips, how to fish, and a lot life lessons that I can't sum up into words, but I still remember to this day.

I lorded those trips over my kid brothers' heads. On the Friday before a camping trip I would go out of my way to make as much noise as possible getting my fishing gear ready and packing extra clothes. Pony was in his own little world half the time, but Soda always asked Dad when he could come along.

"Not until you're five, Pepsi-Cola," was Dad's standard reply.

To Soda, turning five probably seemed like an eternity, but for me it came much quicker and faster than I wanted. My father-son trip was being turned into a father- _sons_ trip. I was not happy.

Soda, of course, grinned from ear to ear the morning he finally got to go on a fishing trip. While Soda went to the bathroom to wash up, I glanced over at his empty chair, "why does he have to join us, Dad?"

My father grinned and messed with the back of my head, "last time I checked Sodapop was my son too."

Mom turned around and put her hands to her temple,as if she was suddenly remembering something, "well, Darrel, there was that handsome Milkman who used to come around..."

Both Mom and Dad burst out laughing. I turned red.

Soda wouldn't stop talking the entire trip. He rode on Dad's shoulders, just like I used to do when I was his age. Every time Soda got close to catching a fish, Dad would cheer for him like he captured a 22 foot Bass. It annoyed me.

I splashed my bare feet in the water, but all that did was scare the fish away. "Darry, don't scare away your game," Dad said to me without looking up.

"Yeah, Darry, don't _scare_ 'em." Sodapop shook his head at me.

 _Great._ It was bad enough that I had to share my fishing trips with Soda, now he was acting like an expert on his first trip out.

Suddenly, Dad remembered he forgot our sack lunches in the car, "Darry, look after your brother, I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Yes, sir." I glared straight ahead at the horizon.

Soda plopped down next to me, "Daddy said I'm the best fisherman he ever seen!"

I snort. _Yeah, right._

Soda keeps on talking and anger builds up inside of me. Dad never told me that I was the best fisherman he's ever seen, and unlike Soda, I actually caught fish. A horrible idea came to me.

 _What if I tell Soda that he's not really my brother? What if I told Soda that Mom and Dad found him in a milk crate. I could even tell him that Mommy told me that the Milkman was really his Daddy. I knew Mom was joking about the Milkman, but Soda doesn't need to know that. Soda would stop wanting to go on the fishing trips and it would be just Dad and me, like it was supposed to be._

I felt guilty and my stomach felt like I ate too much candy, but I was so mad at Soda, I couldn't think straight.

"Soda," I turn around, no Soda.

"Soda!" Still no Soda.

Oh, no.

My stomach did a flip-flop and I felt like I was going to get sick.

"SODA, where are you?!"

I scream at the top of my lungs, but nothing. Just the echo of my voice.

I wanted to throw up.

I look at the lake. _No. Oh. God. He wouldn't._

Does he even know how to swim?

I bend over and throw up.

Vomit runs down my pant legs.

Still clothed, I jump in the water looking for my brother. My entire body is shaking.

I can hear my father call out our names. I rise to the surface. My eyes locked with his. If I live to be one-hundred I will never, ever, forget that look of pure panic and fear on Dad's face.

With his shoes still on, he jumped in head first into the water.

"I don't know where he is!" I yell. For a moment, my dad's soul escapes his body. I don't have any other words to describe it. My father pushes me to the surface, "wait on the dock," he barks at me. He unties his shoes, and begins to search for Soda.

He comes back up a few minutes later. He's breathing hard. I'm sitting on the dock, hugging my knees close to my body. "Did you see him fall in?"

I shook my head, no.

"I dunno what happened, we were on the dock and I turned around and he wasn't here..."

"You were supposed to watch him!" Dad screams. I've never seen my Dad look that angry before, not at me. "You're his brother, you're supposed to look out for him!"

My dad's hands are shaking and mine are too.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!"

My father's raw anger was softened and he gave me a hug, "I'm sorry, Darry. Come on, let's find you brother."

It takes us ten minutes and it's Soda who finds us.

"Hi!" He's carrying a large walking stick and waves it at us.

"I went 'splorin,'" was his explanation, as if that was any explanation at all.

If you ever wanted to simultaneously punch and hug someone at the same time, you know exactly how I felt.

"Sodapop Curtis, when I'm gone you are never to leave Darry side!" Now, it was Soda's turn to get in trouble. I smiled. But not because Soda is getting yelled at, but because Soda was still with us to get yelled at. To this day that memory of my Dad yelling at Soda is still one of the best memories I have of my brother. Because I know how lucky we were. I know what could have happened. I still carry that guilt with me.

We never do retrieve my father's shoes.

* * *

Sodapop takes my father's admonition to heart. The result, I gained a very pesty shadow and more than a few bruised heels and stepped on toes.

"Soda, stop followin' me!"

Soda shakes his head, "Daddy said I'm never suppose'ta leave your side."

 _Jesus._

* * *

If you think Soda became more cautious after that incident, you don't know my brother. Nope, he was always the dare devil of the bunch. When he was nine he had the bright idea of walking on an old rope bridge that swung precariously between two small cliffs.

Once again, I didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late.

The rope started to shake.

 _Shit._

I reached out and steady the rope for him, holding it taut in my hands, praying that it didn't shake him off.

Once he came back safe and sound I wanted to shake _him_.

"Soda, you coulda gotten hurt, you coulda fallen and cracked your head open. What's wrong with you?"

He looked at me and gave me a dopey grin, "I don't have nothin' to fear Darry, you was looking out for me."

I shake my head, but Soda just swings his arm around my waist he looks up at me, his eyes are smiling, "you _always_ look out for me."

And I always would.

* * *

It's different when it's your kid. That's what Dad told me when he forbade Soda from ridding Saddle Bronc after Soda tore a ligament. I nodded, but I didn't get what he was saying. Truthfully, I'm still not sure I get it completely, but I get it now in a way I wouldn't have two years ago.

I supported the war effort, but I didn't think about it. I had my own problems to deal with. Vietnam wasn't my problem, until all of a sudden, it was.

I couldn't tell Soda how I felt, or Pony, or Two-Bit or Gretchen; so once again I kept everything bottled up. I was haunted by the memories of the little boy with the wide-set grin who declared his complete and utter faith in me. A faith, I did not think I earned. I cringed at the memories of the cocky thirteen year old I was, sure that I could protect my brothers from anyone and anything.

Now with my brother going to Vietnam, one memory gave me comfort.

It was during the big rumble with Socs. Soda, I didn't have to worry about, he was a good fighter. A damn good fighter. Pony was a good fighter too, especially for a kid his size, but he needed to work on anticipating moves better. He could get himself out of a lot of sticky situations, but he shouldn't let himself get into those situations in the first place. It didn't help that after a week in Windrixville he lost weight, was tensed up and his reaction time wasn't as quick as it should have been.

Whenever I could, I glanced over my shoulders at Pony, making sure he was okay. That was difficult, as Paul Holden and I were putting the theory of mutually assured destruction to practice.

But Pony was doing pretty well for himself, getting some guy a one-two punch in the stomach.

The Soc kicked Pony in the head. Hard.

I have a temper, but it's more of a controlled, icy-temper, not a blow-up sort of temper. But seeing my brother get kicked in the head, I felt this primal, animalistic rage explode within me.

Before I had a chance to react, Soda runs over and pummels the guy to the ground. In that moment, I was scared of Soda. He did not look like Soda. The look he had was one of pure unadulterated rage. He teeth bore down like a lion eating his prey.

When I say he could of whipped anyone in that state, I mean it.

The light that always shone in his eyes, even when fighting, was replaced by a look of pure hatred. He stomped and kicked the Soc on the ground. Repeatedly. Hard.

Paul knocked me to the ground.

From the corner of my eye I could see Two-Bit come to Pony's side. I pulled Paul off me. Two-Bit flashed me an 'okay' sign with one hand, while he flipped a little Soc over his shoulder with the other.

 _Unfuckingbelievable._

My other brother was still beating the shit out that Soc kid.

Something in me broke.

He was going to kill that guy. I ran towards Soda and the Soc. I pull Soda off him. "Hey, hey, hey! Calm down man, calm down. Get a hold of yourself. NOW." I grit my teeth.

I'm wrapping my arms around him and he's breathing hard. I'm squeezing him even harder, digging my fingernails into his arms. But he's a wild one. He's going at me, kicking and trying to move his arms.

"Don't do anything stupid, man, we can't get the Fuzz to show up. It's okay. It's okay, Soda. Pony's fine." I'm trying to talk to him in the low, soothing voice he used when Johnny got beaten up in the lot.

Soothing ain't really my thing.

He shakes his head in agreement, but his legs and arms are still going at it, as if the Soc is still in front of him. A few other Socs are smart enough to help carry the down guy away.

It takes Soda a few minutes to calm down.

Once he stops kicking, I pull him around to face me. "You okay, Soda?"

He stares at me blankly, "no."

We run towards our brother. Pony is sitting up now, but still looking a bit wobbly. The look of rage on Soda's face is replaced by a look so gentle that it's hard to believe that it belongs to the same person.

"Hey, Pone, you got kicked pretty bad..."

Before Soda can finish his sentence I hear a bunch of footsteps run in the opposite direction and Two-Bit yell gleefully, "look at the dirty shit run!"

Soda gives me a tired grin, the light in his eyes is back, "we won, Darry."

* * *

I think of that look on Soda's face when he landed over that Soc. I think of how Soda could have killed that Soc, would have killed that Soc, if I didn't pull him off in time. It scared me to see my brother so out of control and enraged. But now that look gives me comfort. Because it will be that rage, that killer instinct that will make it possible for Soda to return to us, safe.

* * *

 **A/N:** **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **The Playboy article Darry is reading is from the January 1967 edition.**

 **Gretchen is Darry's girlfriend.**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing, I very much appreciate any and all. :)**

 **ETA: some minor edits.**


	8. Hurting the ones you Love

**AHH, super long chapter. But, hope y'all like it. Two-Bit makes his first appearance. So too does Uncle Pat. Some (mild) sexual situations, some period accurate slang/slurs and homophobia as well.**

 **September 1966 (Tulsa)**

Had it really been almost a year since Johnny and Dally died? Almost a year since Sandy left? Almost a year since Pony was almost taken away from them?

Yet, some things still stayed the same. Like Buck's. Hank Williams still croaked on the radio, a fight or two always broke out, and the beer was cheap and nasty. Buck's had been Dally's place, and for months Soda had a hard time even walking past the old roadhouse without an uneasy, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Over the summer Soda began to hang out at Buck's more. It was still Dally's place, but spending time there made it almost feel like Dally was with him.

Soda choked a giggle, he wasn't sure if he was going to burst out laughing or crying. He could just imagine what smartass remark Dally would make if he knew how soft and sentimental Soda was getting.

But this wasn't a night for sentiment. Nope, this was a night for partying. Two-Bit, Soda and Steve had decided to spend the evening at Buck's. Soda invited Darry, but Darry had a date.

"Supeman got a date, with who?" Steve acted surprised. Heck, even Steve was ragging on Darry for his lack of a love life over the past year.

"Gretchen Miller, she graduated with Darry, she was a cheerleader."

Steve snorted, "figures, Superman still got it. I bet she was Class President too."

Soda shook his head, "nope, I think she and Darry were in the Honor Society together though."

"So, what is Miss. LaDiDa doing dating a lonely East Side boy?" Two-Bit kidded.

Soda shrugged defensively, "she ain't a Soc, she's a real nice girl. Besides, she's more middle class." Soda wasn't sure where the line between middle class and Soc laid, but if it meant not being a snob, than Gretchen was middle class all the way.

Actually Soda didn't know much about Gretchen, except she was always sweet to him and Ponyboy. But that didn't matter, if his brother was dating her, he was going to defend her, no matter what.

"Well, as for me, I prefer East Side girls all the way," Two-Bit lifted his beer bottle up, "give me short skirts and big hair any day of the week."

"You mean big tits and tight cootch," Steve mumbled.

Soda nearly spit out his drink. Steve wouldn't dare talk about Kathy that way or any girl the guys actually knew, but for girls in general, that language was common. It was kind of like how Soda, the best behaved and most polite of all his buddies, wasn't above harassing a random girl for shits and giggles when Dally was there egg him on.

Two-Bit shrugged good naturedly.

"Besides, them Socy girls would rather throw themselves in the river than date a Greasy mug like you," Steve rolled his eyes.

"Hey," Two-Bit responded with a look of mock anger, "I almost had that Socy chick last year, what the hell was her name, Martha, Marcia, Marta?"

A year ago. A year ago when Dally and Johnny were still alive, Soda felt the pangs of grief wrack his chest, but instead of crying or getting sad, he just said; "She musta made a real big impression on you Two-Bit."

Soda gave his friend a wink and teasing punch on the shoulder.

The guys played three games of darts, and a game of pool. Soda had the highest score in darts, but man, did he suck at pool. Evie stopped by for a while and she and Steve went into their full love bird routine. Two-Bit was trying to talk to, hustle(?) a guy with a thick Texas accent.

That gave Soda a chance to enjoy two of his favorite hobbies: chicks and dancing. Soda could name the things he was good at on one hand: cars, horses and dancing. He was a real good dancer. When he danced he had no inhibition, he was just felt the music.

Before he knew it he was taking a girl with long chestnut brown hair to the back bedroom.

The girl grabbed the arm of another girl who had on a black skirt and a tight white blouse, "hey, sweetie, can my friend come and join us?"

Soda gulped, he never had two chicks before, but he swung his arms around both of them, "sure hon, the more the merrier."

The second girl giggled. Her laugh was loud and forced.

Soda wondered what he was getting himself into.

It turns out that sleeping with two chicks at once wasn't the amazing experience Soda imagined it to be. It was awkward, for all three of them. But, at least he have a story to tell the guys.

When he emerged from the bedroom Evie was gone and Steve and Two-Bit were arm wrestling one another. Two-Bit stood up and clapped, and Soda felt himself turn red, but he took a bow instead. Steve was looking uncharacteristically annoyed.

Soda invited the girls to join him at their table, but they said they had to go home. "Well, let me escort you two home."

"No worries, doll, our boyfriends are coming to pick us up," the girl with chestnut hair, whose name was Pamela, quipped.

Soda swallowed hard.

"Aww, I'm just teasin' you, we don't got boyfriends, we got husbands." Pamela burst into laughter, "got ya," she pointed and laughed.

 _Ha ha, very funny._

After another round of drinks and another game of pool, Soda found himself eyeing a tall blonde sitting by herself at the bar. Man, she was a looker, at least from this angle.

"When you gonna pick a chick and stay with her?" Steve's voice cut in like a knife. "You already fucked two tonight, gonna make it three?"

Soda felt defensive, hell, it wasn't like he planned on sleeping with two chicks and besides it wasn't Steve's business anyways.

"For pete's sake, lower your voice." Soda could swear the tall blonde was shooting daggers over at their table. And yeah, maybe he _did_ want to sleep with her.

"Ya know all this bouncing around from chick to chick is making me dizzy as hell." Steve did not lower his voice.

"Yeah, all that bouncin' around is making them real dizzy too," Soda gave his friend a sly grin. He couldn't believe Steve, who was a lot smarter, walked right into that trap.

Steve let out an annoyed grunt, but Soda could see the slight curve of a smile form on his friend's face. Steve was a good enough buddy that he didn't mind if Soda got him once in a while.

"Aww, come on man," Two-Bit swung an arm around Soda's shoulders, "ain't his fault my buddy is a ladies man. The ladies want it, he got it." At least, that's what Soda thought he said. Two-Bit was already plenty wasted and his speech was slurred.

"Man, that bitch really did a number on you, didn't she?" Soda looked at his friend with wide eyes, Steve didn't even know the blonde chick, he was kind of jumping the gun wasn't he? But then Soda figured Steve was talking about Sandy.

Soda shook his head, "don't call her that, Steve," he mutter quietly and without much conviction.

"Oh, come on Stevie," Soda continued, "if I could land a girl like Evie I'd put myself out to pasture in a minute." It was true, Soda wanted a steady girl, but he just couldn't find one. Besides, the nice girls just reminded him of Sandy and the wild ones never wanted to settle down anyways. He didn't want to get hurt again and he didn't want to hurt anyone else. It was better this way.

"Not me," Two-Bit chimed in, swinging his beer car around like it was a beer stein; "heck, I still have a lot of wild oats to sow."

"Kathy ain't take you back yet?" Steve eyed Two-Bit with surprise.

"Nope, let's just say she's granted me the honor of temporary bachelorhood for a while," Two-Bit replied with a good nature grin and a belch.

"Yeah," Soda piped up, "and with those manners, I can see why."

That started a belching competition between Two-Bit and Soda and within a few minutes the two of them were throwing spitballs at each other and devolving into wild laughter. For a moment Soda forgot all about the girl at the bar and about Sandy, Steve just rolled his eyes at the two of them.

Despite all the rumors, some of which Soda help spread himself, Soda was never a ladies man before Sandy left him. Sandy wasn't his first girl, but Sandy was his first girl that he could truly picture marrying.

He was in love with her. Looking back, it was embarrassing, but at the time he followed her around like a lonely puppy doing everything he could to make her happy.

Soda blamed himself for Sandy's cheating. How many times did she tell him that he was taking things too far, too fast? That they were just kids and she wanted to take things slow, that all his talk of marriage scared her?

But did Soda listen? Nope. He just continued to lay the squeeze on her until Sandy decided to take matters into her own hands. Yet she still had the courage to tell him in person what happened. She could have just run off to Florida and not tell him, but she didn't. Soda thought that took some guts.

And as hurt and as angry and as embarrassed as Sandy made him feel, there was still a part of him that wished he could go back and listen to Sandy and just slow down. She still had the prettiest china blue eyes he'd ever seen.

In the year since Sandy left, Soda slept with more women than he had in his entire life. Darry told him to slow down, but he couldn't. It was like a high, he couldn't stop. He just always made sure he had condoms on him. None of the girls he was sleeping with were the marrying types. Heck, some of them he didn't even know their full names.

But Darry knew his brother like the inside of an engine and he was always worried about Soda; if Steve noticed it, it must be getting pretty bad.

Soda felt guilty for making his friend worry so much, he slung an arm over Steve's shoulder, "I know man, I'll be careful," he gave Steve a smile. He hoped he looked convincing.

He wanted to mean it. He needed to mean it. For his sake and for Steve's sake.

"Yeah," Steve grunted, " just don't want you to get hurt."

Soda felt miserable, it seemed like no matter what he did, he always ended up hurting those closest to him. It didn't make him feel too hot.

The tall blonde walked past their table, Soda couldn't help but notice that she had blue eyes, just like Sandy.

* * *

Now everything had changed. Soda turned eighteen, signed up to join the Army; Darry was still dating Gretchen and Pony was dating a girl named Cathy Carson.

Soda stopped sleeping around so much. It was funny, now would be a perfect time to sleep around, chicks seemed to dig the man in uniform thing; but he didn't feel right sleeping with a bunch of girls knowing that he might never come back. Besides, he didn't want to set a bad example for Pony.

* * *

 **(Winter, 1966/1967)**

Soda's fate was sealed the moment he took an aptitude test in Basic Training. Despite what Pony and Darry tried to tell him, Soda knew he wasn't that bright. Unlike his brainiac brothers he was at least smart enough to figure that out. Poor test scores, combined with being a high school dropout and with no family; well Soda might as well of written "cannon fodder" across his forehead.

"Bullshit! Can't they put you in the mechanic's unit?" Darry bellowed. "Don't they know how good you are with engines, with all types of vehicles?"

"Yeah Dar, I packed an engine in my sack, I bought it out and worked on it between our morning run, the Sarge was real impressed." As soon as the words left his mouth, Soda wished he could take them back. He knew Darry was worried about him and just wanted to help; besides Soda didn't have the same knack for sarcasm his brothers had. He worried that he came across as too mean and phony.

"Did you tell them that you enlisted, that you volunteered to join the Army? That should count for something." Darry was practically yelling into the receiver.

"First of all, it don't count for nothin'; volunteer, draftee, it's all the same once you get here. Second, keep your voice down, you'll wake up Ponyboy."

Soda couldn't help but smile when Darry muttered that Pony was on a date. He looked at his watch, _11:57 P.M_. Man, Darry was getting soft.

Darry's voice changed, "you want me to tell Pony?" Even over the phone Soda could feel how worried Darry was.

"No man, let me tell him, I at least owe him that."

Soda hung up the receiver. How did this happen? A few months ago he was eating hamburgers with Two-Bit and now he a grunt headed to Vietnam.

He remembered a few months ago at Buck's, when he promised Steve he would slow down. It was true, he always ended up hurting the people closest to him.

* * *

In the month he had at home before being shipped off, Soda spent as much time with his brothers as possible. It made him sad to imagine Pony graduating high school, or Darry getting married and starting a family without him being around to see it. For the first time in a year Soda felt truly glad he didn't have a girlfriend, it would have been too hard to say goodbye.

He hung out with Steve and Evie and Two-Bit too. Two-Bit was great. Steve was already a basket case, talking about how he wanted to kill the recruitment officer who lied to Soda.

Two-Bit just treated Soda like he always did. It was nice to have a buddy he could just joke around with. Two-Bit was more than a jokester of course, he was a real good pal and understood things a lot better than people gave him credit for. Two-Bit understood perfectly that Soda just wanted to be treated like one of the guys and not think about Vietnam every single hour of the day.

* * *

"Wow California, can I come with you Soda?" It was the first time since Soda announced that he was enlisting that Pony's eyes shone with pure excitement, and Soda hated to disappoint his little brother.

Soda placed an arm around his brother's shoulder, "nah Pony, Uncle Pat just invited me, wouldn't be right to make him pay for your bus fare as well."

"Besides, you have school little man," Darry poked his head out from the kitchen as he absentmindedly dried off a plate.

Pony shot his oldest brother a death glare and Soda stifled a giggle; man, if Soda thought Darry could give a killer look when he was mad, he had nothing on Ponyboy.

Soda hadn't seen Uncle Pat since the funeral. Truthfully, it made Soda a bit uncomfortable that Uncle Pat invited him to visit him in person when he found out that Soda enlisted. It was almost as if he didn't expect to ever see Soda again. Soda shuddered at the thought.

 _I'm being paranoid._ Soda thought. Uncle Pat was a soldier himself, he probably just wanted to chug a few beers and hang out with his nephew. Soda wasn't about to turn down a free trip to California, and besides, he did want to see Uncle Pat.

When he was younger Pony confided to Soda that he thought Uncle Pat looked like an angry elf who ate too much spinach. It was true though. Uncle Pat was short, stocky, and pound for pound the most muscular guy in the family. He could easily beat all of them at arm wrestling, even Darry and their dad.

Uncle Pat and their Dad were even more opposites than Soda and Darry were. Darrel Sr. couldn't cross the block without making a friend; Uncle Pat kept to himself and he hardly joked around. They reminded Soda a bit of him and Steve.

Uncle Pat's entire body was covered in tattoos. Even the guys in the downtown outfits didn't have as many tattoos as Uncle Pat. It made him seem dangerous. With his tough guy demeanor and fighting tips, even Steve was impressed by Uncle Pat. A large eagle head with a scorpion's body covered his upper back and shoulders, a red and orange flame ran up his left leg, one bicep was covered with a wolf, the other bicep with a semi-naked nurse; his wrists had a bunch of random words written in Chinese.

Soda never learned what the Chinese writing meant, but he figured out that the "Goodnight Nurse" tat was a lie. Uncle Pat liked men.

Nobody told him; but one Summer Uncle Pat, Grandma Curtis and Uncle Pat's 'buddy' Rodney, came up to visit. On Grandma Curtis's instance, Rodney went on a few dates with girls he met at the church social. "Get yourself a good godfearin' woman Rodney," Grandma Curtis would gently tease him.

Soda thought it would be neat to live with his best buddy. He told his dad he wanted to live with Steve, like Uncle Pat and Rodney did. His dad just chuckled like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and muttered under his breath, "yeah, I'm sure Don would love that." Soda didn't get it, why wouldn't Mr. Randle want him and Steve to live together?

Uncle Pat and Rodney hardly looked at each other while they visited the Curtises. But, a few times Soda saw them stealing glances at each other, small smiles and knowing smirks. They reminded Soda of his parents.

After they returned to California, Soda decided to ask his mom.

 _"Mom, Uncle Pat loves Rodney don't he?"_

 _His mom didn't look up from her sink of dirty dishes, "why do you think that, Soda?" Her tone of voice was even and Soda couldn't tell if she was mad or not. Soda could always tell when his father was mad._

 _"Because Uncle Pat looks at Rodney the same way Dad looks at you, so I figured they was in love, I dunno." Soda looked down at the floor sheepishly, in school when the teacher asked him a question he never had the right answer._

 _Mrs. Curtis turned to her son and her face relaxed, she looked as if an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders and she smiled, "yes, Soda, Uncle Pat and Rodney love each other."_

 _His mother smiled when she talked about Uncle Pat and Rodney, like it was a good thing; but in the same breath she told Soda not to tell any of his friends about Uncle Pat and Rodney, that it was their private business._

 _"Even Steve?"_

 _"Even Steve, Soda. It's no one's business but their own."_

 _Soda nodded and was about to head out of the room, when his mother grabbed a hold of him and turned him to face her; her gaze more intense than he'd ever seen, "promise me Soda, you won't tell anyone about Uncle Pat and Rodney, it wouldn't be good for them or for us."_

 _Soda promised, but he didn't understand._

 _He didn't understand how something could be good but also so horrible that it had to be kept a secret. He didn't understand how his dad, who always talked up Uncle Pat and all the adventures they had as kids, never mentioned Rodney. The one time Rodney came to visit, Soda's dad had been polite, but standoffish with him. Soda's dad was never cold to anyone unless they really pissed him off._

 _He wondered if his dad was ashamed and that thought didn't make Soda feel too hot. He couldn't imagine what he would do if Darry or Pony were ever ashamed of him._

 _Yet Soda knew that his dad loved his brother. When Uncle Pat was around Soda's dad acted like an over-excited colt._ _The two of them would sit on the back porch, sip beers and talk into the night. Sometimes, they would talk for such a long time they didn't even go to bed._

 _It was all so confusing for Sodapop Curtis._

* * *

 **Spring 1967 -California**

Six years later and Soda was still confused. Uncle Pat offered to pick him up at the Greyhound Station, but Soda preferred to walk, after being trapped on that hot, sticky bus he had a lot of pent up energy to get rid of.

Problem was, he wasn't familiar with the city and the map he picked up at the depot wasn't much help. San Francisco wasn't at all like Soda imagined. He imagined a city with surfers and blondes, that's what he knew about California from the movies; instead the city had a wild, magnetic energy. Across the street from the bus depot there was a protest going on, and a few blocks away Soda saw some members of the Black Panthers hold their own rally. It was all so wild.

The streets were filled with all sorts of people, all different races too. Soda had never seen so many different people in such a small space. Then there were the hippies. There were hippies in Tulsa of course, heck Soda slept with some yellowed hair girl over at the "Hippie House," who called herself Birdie; but not like this.

There were boys with flowers in their hair and girls with American flag parkas. Soda could practically hear Darry roll his eyes all the way from Tulsa, but Soda thought they just looked like kids. Goofy kids no doubt, but kids all the same. Not that he'd be caught dead dressed like a hippie; those birds were weird.

Back home there weren't a lot of hippies in their neighborhood. Pony was probably the closest to all that peace, love and groovy stuff than any one Soda knew, and Pony still carried a blade and dressed in his Sketchers, blue jeans and t-shirt. Heck, Soda thought glumly, you wear flowers in your hair on east side and you're practically asking for a jumping.

Soda would never jump anyone; but he knew that guys like the Shepards got their kicks from harassing the long haired boys.

You had to be pretty brave, or stupid, to be a hippie in their neighborhood.

As Soda continued walking he began to notice that people were staring at him. It was funny, Soda was used to people staring, but this made him feel uneasy. He looked down at his dirty sneakers, jeans and white t-shirt, he felt his newly shorn hair.

Back home Soda was a greaser, but here he just felt like a square. For the first time Soda felt out of place. Soda shrugged, wasn't no use worrying what other people thought.

Uncle Pat's street was quieter than Soda expected. There was an old lady in a house dress watering her plants and a man in a business suit entering a taxi, otherwise the street was empty.

Sodapop didn't know what to expect when he knocked on Uncle Pat's door. He certainly didn't expect to see Uncle Pat with a huge grin on his face open the door and wrap Soda in a big bear hug.

"Soda! So glad you made it! Please, give me your bag, you must be exhausted." Soda blinked. _This was Uncle Pat?_

Soda sat down on the leather couch, he looked around, Uncle Pat sure had a lot of books on his shelves. That reminded him. "Hey Uncle Pat can you tell me how to get to," Soda pulled out a crumpled paper from his pocket, "City Lights" Book Store? Pony wants me to check it out for him."

Uncle Pat practically jumped up with excitement. "Ponyboy, how is he?"

"He's real good, he's making almost Straight As again, and he's a top track star in the school." Soda couldn't help but beam when he got a chance to brag about his younger brother.

Uncle Pat slapped his leg and for a second his expression looked so much like Soda's dad, Soda did a double take. "Good for him, and how's Darry doing, he's holding up okay?"

Uncle Pat leaned in towards Soda as if he was waiting for the answer.

"Yeah, Darry is doin' real good, got himself a girl too, real nice girl too, practically a Soc." Uncle Pat gave him a quizzical look and Soda reminded himself that Uncle Pat had no idea about greasers or Socs. Soda thought it was funny. Two years ago the greaser-soc rivalry was all anyone could think about. But that was a lifetime ago.

Darry made Soda promise that he wouldn't tell Uncle Pat about their money woes. Soda knew that Uncle Pat would help out without a moment's hesitation, but Darry was prideful and stubborn.

"That's great. I'm so proud of you boys, your parents would be so proud," something in Uncle Pat's voice caught and he covered it up with a fake cough, just like Darry did when he wanted to hide his own emotions. Soda could see through both of them.

"Where's Rodney?" Soda asked, hoping to change the subject.

"On a trip," Uncle Pat motioned towards the hallway and gave Soda a subtle smirk and Soda knew exactly what kind a trip Rodney was on.

Uncle Pat beamed at him, "it's real good to see you Soda."

Uncle Pat and Soda talked for an hour, and Uncle Pat would not shut up. Soda didn't think he heard Uncle Pat talk so much in his entire life and for the first time Soda could remember, he seemed completely at ease.

Maybe it was the acid?

Soda decided to bring up the subject, he never liked pussyfooting around "so, 'bout me goin' to 'Nam, what do you think about it?"

Uncle Pat swallowed hard and looked at Soda and then down on the floor. Soda felt guilty for putting Uncle Pat on the spot like this, but he wanted to know.

"I love you Soda, and I don't want anything to happen to you. I also know that you're a Curtis, which means you're strong, stubborn and have one hell of temper. I don't really pray much Soda, but I'm going to be praying for you. But, can I give you some advice?"

Soda nodded, he was eager to pick up advice from Uncle Pat, heck at this point he take advice from almost anyone. Well, except from the hippies, not like _they_ would have any tuff fighting advice.

"Don't do what I did. I shut everyone out. I didn't speak to your father or your mother until you were born. I was hurting Soda, and because I was hurting so much, I ended up hurting the ones I loved the most. If I hadn't met Rodney, I wouldn't be here today. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. But I still feel guilt over the way I treated your folks. I've never forgiven myself."

Soda didn't know what to say. He reached out and touched Uncle Pat on the forearm, "Dad knew you loved him, Mom too; they both loved you a lot."

Uncle Pat nodded and buried his forehead in his hands, he began to shake and Soda thought he might be crying; but Uncle Pat sat up and dried-eyed and without missing a beat, continued to talk.

"I guess what I'm saying Sodapop, is when you come back, and you _will_ come back, don't turn your back on the people you love. Everyone's war experience is different, but no man who goes to war ever emerges the same as he was before. It will change you Soda, _you will_ change. But you don't have deal with it alone; go to you brothers, go to me, go to your mom's family. Just don't do what I did, don't shut them out."

Sodapop nodded, but he couldn't imagine ever turning his back on Darry or Pony. His brothers were like extensions of himself, he didn't know who he was without them.

Just like that, Uncle Pat changed the topic to baseball. Uncle Pat didn't like talking about sad topics any more than Soda's dad.

Rodney emerged from the bedroom and gave Uncle Pat a kiss on the head. "Good afternoon, sweetheart," he whispered.

Soda never saw two men kiss before. He didn't know if he should look or not. What was the polite thing to do? It made him a bit uncomfortable. But of course they would kiss, they were a couple. They did all the things a couple did. Rodney's expression changed when he saw Sodapop.

"Oh, hey," he scratched the back of his head and looked nervous, then steel-eyed. Soda stood up and offered Rodney his hand, "hey Rodney, good to see you again."

Rodney nodded, but the expression on his face was still guarded. Soda thought he looked as uncomfortable around Soda as Soda's dad looked around Rodney.

There sat Uncle Pat, caught between his two families.

Uncle Pat stood up, "shit, I need a beer." He was a Curtis alright. Soda smiled, even the fact that Uncle Pat liked men couldn't change that.

* * *

Later that night Soda heard Uncle Pat and Rodney talk about him.

"He's a real good kid Rod. Besides, he's my nephew, you're not telling me who I can invite into MY house."

"First of all, it's OUR house. Can you imagine what he's gonna do now that he saw us kiss? Jesus, Pat, don't you ever think?"

Soda wanted to burst through the room and yell at Rodney that he knew they were Queer since Soda was twelve. Heck, only complete dolts like his Grandmother couldn't tell that Rodney was a fairy. At least Uncle Pat didn't act _that way._

Uncle Pat just laughed, "he's a smart guy, hon, I think he knows already."

"He may be polite to you because he's family; but if he ran into us on the street he would beat us up just like those punks did Wade and Billy. He's no different."

Soda felt anger build up inside of him. He liked fights, hell, he was always good for a rumble. But a fair fight; jumping a guy because he's black, or a hippie or a homosexual just didn't appeal to Soda.

Screw Rodney and his snooty know-it-all attitude.

Uncle Pat just laughed again, "you need to take another trip, might mellow you out."

* * *

 _ **April, 1967 - Tulsa**_

In the end when it came to see Soda off, it was just the three of them. Everyone else, Gretchen, Steve, Two-Bit, Tami Mathews and Mrs. Mathews, had said goodbye that morning.

Tami thrusted a plate of burnt cookies into his hands.

"I failed Home-Ec," she said bluntly as Soda stared down at plate.

"Ah, don't worry, honey, I like 'em extra crispy anyways."

Saying goodbye to Steve was the hardest.

But nothing was like saying goodbye to his brothers.

Ponyboy was a mess. But Ponyboy wasn't going to cry in public. Greasers didn't cry. Two years ago, Pony might have cried, but now at fifteen, he was going to keep it in.

Soda understood. He was the most emotional of his brothers, but even Soda didn't bawl in public. His parents' funeral didn't count, that was different.

While Darry checked the bus schedule, Darry always liked to keep busy when he was nervous; Soda took Pony by the vending machine.

"Give me a Pep..."

Soda tossed his brother a Pepsi. "Gee kiddo, I've only known you, what fifteen years?"

The two of them sat crossed legged on the bench, facing one another.

"You're gonna be okay, kid." Soda tried to grin at his brother, but Pony's fallen face was not making it easy.

"Pony, you gotta promise me something." Pony sat straight up, "okay."

"You got to promise to look after Darry. He's gonna need you, maybe even more than you need him. Now we all know that our brother is one stubborn fucker," at that Pony let out a small smile, "but look after him."

Pony nodded, looking so much older than his fifteen years.

There was one more thing that Soda needed to tell Pony. He looked into Pony's eyes. They were innocent eyes, good eyes. He really was a good kid. The best.

"You're my best friend Pony. I mean that. You know me better than Steve, better than Darry, even better than Dad did." He leaned closer to Pony, as if he was telling his brother a secret, "and if you think for one moment I ain't gonna come back to my best buddy, you got another thing coming to you."

Pony blinked, trying to keep the tears out his eyes.

"I don't let my buddies down," Soda said with conviction. He meant it. He may not have much in terms of smarts, but he was loyal. If he made a promise to Pony he was going to keep it, no matter what.

"Now come on, let's catch up with Darry," Soda swung his arm around his kid brother. He was gonna miss the hell out of him.

Darry shook Soda's hand and gave what only could be described as a 'manly' hug. "Take care of yourself Pepsi-Cola." It was an order, not a statement. Soda nodded and grinned.

Just then, Darry pulled his younger brother into a hug, "please, come back." He said these word so softly that Soda had to strain to hear him.

Soda nodded. He wasn't gonna start to cry.

Pony was last one. Soda pulled him into a bear hug. "I'm gonna miss you so much!"

Pony didn't tell his brother to be careful, or to come back; instead Pony just told his brother "please write."

Darry gave Pony a quizzical look, but Soda got exactly what Pony meant. He meant, please tell me everything that's happening, please don't leave anything out.

Soda gave his brother a sad smile, he didn't want to lie, but he had a feeling this was one promise he wouldn't be able keep.

* * *

 _Dear Pony, Darry, Two-Bit and Steve,_

 _I'm writing you this from the plain, it's amazing flying. I didn't get sick at all, that's gotta be a good sign, right?_

 _Take care buddies!_

 _Soda P. Curtis_

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **So, a twelve year old boy in Tulsa, OK in 1961 being able to figure out that his Uncle and his Uncle's 'buddy' are a couple, might be a bit far-fetched. But, I always imagined that Soda was quite insightful when it came to figuring out people's behavior and their feelings.**


	9. Welcome to Vietnam

**Okay, took my a long time to get this chapter out. Not my best I don't think, but I'm so glad just to get a chapter out. :) Anyways, truly hope you enjoy.**

 **Warnings: racist slurs, story takes place during war.**

* * *

 **May, 1967**

Vietnam is one weird ass place.

Remember those fun house mirrors at the fair; the ones that you stand in front of and it makes you look real fat or tall or some weird shit? That's what Vietnam is like. Everything looks kinda normal, but when you look close up you see how far-out and crazy it all is.

A few of the guys in my unit get high on dew. I don't. I ain't a square or anything and I don't have any problem with anyone else getting high; but this place is so freaky I don't need weed.

This place is loco enough.

I get high on Vietnam.

Yeah, I know that sounds real wacked-out, like something I would say if I was using Mary Jane; but it's true. Mike Chavez, one of the guys in my unit, tells me that I'm only person he'd ever seen that gets high as a kite without taking any drugs.

I guess it's true. A few years ago, after Mom and Dad died and Pony got stone cold wasted, I told him that I don't need to get high on alcohol, that I get high on life.

Wanna know the weird thing?

It's true.

Ain't that wild?!

I mean, bet you never heard of a street smart greaser who doesn't drink and hardly smokes, but I never needed too.

And here in 'Nam everything is so odd that I can get high just breathing in the air.

The air here is sticky and wet, and I miss the dry, humid air of home.

I'm stepping over a rice paddy and man; you don't wanna fall into one of these shit holes. I miss the dust of the rodeo.

I do smoke cigarettes though. Started in boot camp. In my last letter home I teased Pony that when I came back he better have an entire carton of smokes for me. Knowing him, he'll probably have a dozen cartons waiting for me. He's good like that.

I used to only smoke when I was nervous, or I wanted to look tough; now I just smoke to do something, anything. I don't smoke out of fear or nerves or even boredom really, I just smoke.

Nicotine covers my tongue. My tongue feels like leather. I don't even want to think about what my breath smells like. I may smoke like a jackal, but I still ain't use to it yet.

Glory, how does Pony manage to smoke so much? Furthermore, how the hell does that brother of mine manage to smoke so much and still be a track star?

It's not even 5:00 in the morning and I'm covered in sweat, a combination of the 70 lbs of equipment I hump on my back and the sticky, wet heat. My blue bandana, which is supposed to keep out the heat and prevent the sweat from dripping down my face just sticks to my skin.

The last time I wore a bandana I was riding bronc. That Soda Curtis feels like a whole other person.

That Soda Curtis wore a cowboy hat, this Soda Curtis wears a helmet. That Soda Curtis carried a blade, this Soda Curtis carries an M16. That Soda Curtis dreamed of becoming a cowboy, this Soda Curtis dreams of making it out alive.

It's only been three weeks. Eleven months left to go.

Sometimes when I'm on patrol for a few seconds I like to pretend I'm back home. It's weird, I ain't got much of an imagination, that's Pony's department; but for a few seconds I can will myself to think that them water buffalos I see are bulls and I'm back at the rodeo.

I ain't walkin' through a ricepaddy, I tell myself; nope, I'm in the pen getting ready to ride a bull.

Sometimes, I can even _see_ myself riding the bull. I see everyone cheering for me: my parents, my brothers and here's the kicker, even Dally Winston. I chuckle at the thought; Dally would come down from Heaven and beat the shit out of me if he knew I imagined him doing anything as rank as cheering.

Talk about your weird ass shit! You see what I mean when I say I don't need no Mary Jane to get high? Just the air is enough.

Funny thing is, bulls were never my thing; my dad was the bull rider I was always about horses.

Sometimes, I pretend that I'm back in Tulsa, working with Steve on cars, teasing Darry, listening to Pony, getting in trouble with Two-Bit.

It doesn't last for long. Out here, having an imagination, being a thinker, a dreamer, can get your ass blown to kingdom come. I ain't gonna do that to my brothers.

So I walk and watch. My eyes scan for enemies. My eyes narrow and for a second I can feel myself changing. The thoughts of rodeo disappear from my head. I'm cold and serious.

I'm holding my weapon to my body, the way I use to hold Sandy. I shake my head, what does that say about me that I hold a gun the way I use to hold my girl?

Extra ammunition crisscrosses my chest.

I look like a blasted bullseye target.

If three weeks in 'Nam has gotten me high on air, it also bulked me up a bit. I ain't never going to look like Darry, but I've added muscles to my lean physique.

It's May and my skin is already a deep bronze. Darry and Dad were the only ones in our family who ever really got a tan, but maybe the 'Nam sun is different because by the time summer hits I'm gonna be as brown as the folks here.

The hardest thing about 'Nam is being quiet. I'm a talker, but even more, I like listening. And being in those situations when everyone around me is silent is hard to take.

The silence is almost deafening.

I love Pony to death, but I don't really get how he can stand so much quiet all the time. Out here I feel like a balloon about to burst. As soon as I'm back at base I go wild; I dance, laugh, joke, do everything I can to get the feelings out of me.

Mostly though, I miss listening to people. I miss laughing with Two-Bit or talking to my brothers. Out here there is a strange kind of silence.

It's a silence that spooks me.

Like, you think that being in a war it would be real loud all the time, right? Nope, there's a dark silence that creeps me out about this place. Because you know there is some dark danger that lurks just underneath the corner about to snatch you up.

There are times when I'm on patrol and I almost hope that Charlie shoots at us; at least those damn AK-47s make noise.

The reason I don't dig the silence is that I don't dig being alone with myself. I dunno, I love talking to others and I don't mind listening to another guy's beef; but being alone with my own thoughts is scary, I ain't good company.

That's another thing I've learned here, when to be quiet.

Luckily this wasn't a patrol we had to be completely silent on.

It's real early in the morning, but the mosquitoes are already out in full force I swat a bunch of them from my face.

"Fuck, I ain't even dead and I'm already breakfast!" I let out a little laugh. It feels good to laugh, even when you're being attacked by a bunch of mosquitoes.

We joke a lot a lot about getting killed. Guess it's kinda a protection.

I try to grin while swatting more bugs away from me. When I was a little kid Mom use to hold me in her arms and tell me that mosquitoes like me 'cause I was so sweet.

"You're just like candy to them."

Darry use to roll his eyes when she said that. Yeah, even back then my brother knew me better that my mom did.

Glory, I hope she ain't looking down at me right now. Wonder what he would think, her sweet boy carrying an M16?

And for the briefest of seconds, I'm glad she's dead. I can't hurt her.

I pat the extra ammunition I got on me, it's my security blanket.

Sweat is still dripping down the side of my head. My hair is still pretty short, not as short as it was in boot camp, but shorter than I've worn it in a long time.

Vietnam ain't nothing like I imagined. I don't know what I expected; they really didn't teach us much about the country in boot camp. Truthfully, I still don't know what we're doing over here. I mean, I'm sure it's for a good reason, but I reckon if I know what the hell it is.

Everything here is a bit topsy turvy, a bit off-kilter. Take the chocolate. It's issued by the U.S. government and it's supposed to be able to survive the jungle heat. It does. But that's all it does. It looks like a real chocolate bar, feels like a real chocolate bar, but it sure as hell doesn't taste like a real chocolate bar.

That's what Vietnam is like.

Like that pretty village over the distance, well it ain't so pretty at night when it turns into a Vietcong hideout; or that guy out with his water buffalo is just a typical farmer, until he brandishes his weapon and he becomes my enemy and I become his enemy. I mean, I don't _want_ to be his enemy, but he has a gun and I have a gun, and I'm sure as hell ain't gonna have Darry plan another funeral. So, I guess it ain't surprising that even the Army issued chocolate bars are screwed up over here.

I toss the rest of my chocolate bar to Irish. His real name is Philip Mihailovich, but he's called Irish on account of his red hair and green eyes. He reminds me of Ponyboy; both are whip-smart book worms and shouldn't be within 100 miles of a war zone.

But at least Pony is tough. At least Pony has seen death in the face. Truthfully, I ain't trying to diss Irish, but I don't think he'd be able to handle half the things Pony has.

He's actually a month older than I am, but I can't help but think of him as a kid. I remember how pissed off Pony gets when Darry calls him "kid" or "kiddo" and I have to remind myself not to call Irish "kid."

In just a few bites Irish devours the entire bar and with a grateful, chocolate covered grin, tells me "thanks, Okie." Goddamn, he is such a little kid.

That's my nickname, on account of being from Oklahoma. I hate it. Irish keeps on talkin' about some guy named Steinbeck, who I figure to be some sort of relative of his. I shouldn't complain too much about being called Okie, at least I ain't like poor Tate Parker who is called T.P to his face and "Taint" behind his back.

Besides, if a dumb nickname is the worst thing I carry from this place, I'll consider myself lucky.

I have a soft spot for Irish, it just ain't because he reminds me so much of Ponyboy, it's also because we're on the same rotation. We got to Vietnam on the same day and I'm gonna do my best to make sure we both go home on the same day. Preferably not in a casket.

"Hey, Okie, did you know that the Vietnamese believe that elephants are sacred and divine animals? They're also a symbol of royalty and power. It would be pretty neat to run into an elephant out on patrol."

I'm cringing inside. Phil ain't really a bad soldier, and I like him a lot, but he don't need to talk like a freakin' encyclopedia. Not out here.

Amundsen interrupts our conversation, "yeah, I can just imagine writing home, 'Dear Mom, today I saw an elephant! Also, half of my unit was swolled whole by said elephant."

I laugh. I like him, he's kinda square and likes to put on a show, but he has this cockeyed sense of humor that reminds me a little bit of Two-Bit. I promise myself when I get back to Base I'm gonna introduce Luke to some actual music; Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, those types of guys, none of this Peter, Paul & Mary folkcrap he listens to.

I give Irish a half-hearted grin. It's 5:00 A.M. and after an hour of walking through field after field of repeating farmlands and rice paddies, it's the best I can manage. Besides, I don't really care about elephants.

"Okie, you gon..."

 **"Incoming! V.C.!"**

I hear our point man, Cooper's voice.

 _Shit._

So much for my lazy walk through the rice paddies.

My body takes over and I fall hard onto the ground. I shoot. Ain't shooting at no one in particular since I can't see anyone, just shooting at the direction of the incoming fire.

I'm a good shot.

I'm not bragging about myself, because truthfully there ain't much to brag about; but I'm a real good shot. Got one the highest scores in boot camp.

I don't think, not that thinking has ever been my strong suit; I just shoot.

But there's a part of me that's scared. A big part.

We're all in position, rattling off our guns the fast rat-a-tat-tat has its own rhythm.

We're a team.

Here's the thing they don't tell you at boot camp. Shooting, and I don't mean killing anyone, but _shooting_ an M16 is a lot like sex. I mean it, the fear, the power the feel of the gun, everything.

My body is still. But my heart is wildly pumping, I'm sweating, my head in tingly; with my gun in my hands; I ejaculate bullets.

Afterwards I take a few heavy breaths.

It's over.

Cartridges cover the ground.

Maybe I'm saying this 'cause I haven't had sex for over six months but it's better than screwing.

Forget Sandy, give me an M16.

I shake my head.

Now you see why I don't like being alone with myself and my thoughts.

We don't take any hits and it's a half-ass ambush to tell you the truth; but we're still gonna air strike the place.

That's what Nam is like. You're walking, listening to buddies talk about elephants, eating shit-chocolate and a in a half-an-hour you're gonna watch a Viet Cong village get blown up.

Irish is still eating his chocolate.

Welcome to Nam!

I don't watch the air strike. I know where I am and I know what my job is; but watching an air strike, seeing a village turn red and orange and black just feels like a cruel violation of privacy. Even if they deserve it. Even if it's the right thing to do.

I can at least give them their dignity.

I don't know what that says about me. This is war, and I'm going to shoot someone before they shoot me, but watching this, feels wrong to me.

But, I don't want the other guy to think I'm soft; so I pretend to stand guard. It gives me an excuse. Besides we're supposed to be a team.

Everyone else is watching the village burn. Some of them joke about BBQ and crispy Gooks. But there's no cruelty in their joking, it's almost as half-assed as the ambush that set off the air strike.

The rest just watch in silence.

I'm surprised when Irish joins me.

"Hey man," I hand him a smoke and he lights up.

"What are you doing?"

I don't look at him, just shrug my shoulders.

"Yeah," he stares off at the distance, "I don't want to watch that village burn either."

My eyes widen, but I don't say anything. Irish understands things better than I thought.

I blow a ring of smoke.

Out of the edge of my eye I can see the final burning embers of the Cong village.

My cigarette smoke and the smoke of the burning village blend together.

But I still don't turn around, I still don't look. Because it's more than just wanting to protect their privacy and not being snoop; I'm afraid that I'm going to look at the flames and find them intoxicating.

That's Vietnam for you.

You can get high on the air and drunk on the flames.

But the chocolate still tastes like shit.

* * *

 **A/N S.E. Hinton owns**

 **The idea of the air strike for a village in retribution for an ambush comes from "The Thing They Carried" by Tim O'Brien**

 **Thank you so much for reading. :)**


	10. Irish and the Can-Can Club

**A/N: Some timeline experimentation with this one. This was originally supposed to be part of a separate one-shot, but I decided to include it as part of the main narrative.**

* * *

"Slate, Paper" advertised itself as "The Village Voice: without the money, editors or talent!" It was a small independent magazine, which despite its self-effacing tag line did pretty well for itself in the late 1960s/early 1970s before going belly up in 1975, just in time to miss the American Bicentennial, oil wars and Disco. My friend, Ben Hoffmann, was an "Associate-Associate Editor" or something along that line.

Ben and I met in college, he was a senior and I was a freshman when we first learned the art of activist journalism through the Tulsa Echo. _"Is the Cafeteria really skimping on meat in their famed 'three meats sandwiches?_

For my freshman cornerstone project, a fancy term for a anxiety attack in paper form; I planned on submitting a 'true narrative account' to a verifiable publication and then write about the entire process of drafts, edits, rejections and more edits, rejections and finally publication; a process which, if I was lucky would repeat itself until I retired.

After finding out that the Tulsa Echo didn't count as a "verifiable publication" since 'they publish anyone,' I sought out Benny.

I halfway considered just updating my old essay I wrote in high school about the week Johnny, Dally and Bob Sheldon died, but then one evening my brother Sodapop, as he did so many times before, came to my rescue.

 _Dear Benny,_

 _I was fifteen when my brother joined the army, sixteen when he came back from Vietnam. He didn't see me for a year; I didn't see him almost die in an ambush. When he came back he was both the exact same person and a completely different person from the one that left us. I have a hard time explaining it, even to myself, even now. It was like all of those qualities that made Soda "Soda" were still there, but altered._

 _I have difficult time writing about my brother in the war, first of all because of all he went through and secondly, because it was not my story to tell. I didn't think I could do justification to him or to his story._

 _To Americans, it is known as "The Vietnam War," apparently in the North Vietnamese call it, "The American War," to me, it simply became my brother's war._

 _But it was Soda, who told me his story and encouraged me to write it down._

 _"Ponyboy," he began, his gaze both intense and soft at the same time, "write it down man, I trust you."_

 _That did it. I started to cry and couldn't stop._

 _"Fuck, ain't I fucking bawl baby." I tried to laugh it off and curse again, but all that did was cause a new round of crying, this time complete with snot bubbling out of my nose and my throat crackling; which, I assure you, was as attractive as it sounds._

 _My brother, clad in only a pair of dirty Levis and a long sleeved undershirt stood up and not saying a word, gave me a hug._

 _I figured that if he could bare his soul to me and then have the presence and heart to comfort me, at the very least I could try to share with the world what he went through._

 _To two of us sat up and talked for about 6 hours straight that night, me smoking cigarettes, my brother smoking pot, both of us chugging down some watered down Bud._

 _"Don't write about Basic," my brother tells me, "that shit is boring. Ain't no one gonna want to read about me throwing up after running a fucking obstacle course."_

 _So, let's just say that Basic wasn't fun for Private 1st Class Sodapop P. Curtis._

 _"Sometimes, after a particularly hard obstacle course or run, I'd almost wished I was in Vietnam. Ain't that something, Pony? By the way, how the hell did you do all of that running in high school smoking like a chimney?"_

 _I shrugged, "don't know, can't do it now, that's for damn sure."_

 _Sodapop crocked one eyebrow, a little trick he'd picked up from an old buddy of ours from way back, "mmm, serves you right," he said with a smirk._

 _"Yeah," I reply, my eyes focusing on the bag of weed in his hand._

 _As the dark turned to dawn, our oldest brother came home. Even though the two of us were high as kites and tired as shit, we insisted on telling him all of the stories. Of course, at that hour I can't vouch for the accuracy of anything we were saying._

 _You remember Darry, right? Big guy, probably voted for Richard "send us all to the poorhouse" Nixon, and all that? Well, Mr. "I don't smoke cause I'm too proud of my athletic health," bummed some Mary Jane from Soda. I know it's not acid or anything, but I never thought I'd see the day when Darry Curtis decided to smoke pot. Soda and I looked at him like he was off his rocker._

 _But Darry, smoking pot like it was the most natural thing in the world, just looked at us, rolled his eyes and said "grow the fuck up you two." *That* sent us all into another round of laughter, when Darry, rolling on the floor and heaving in hysterics (it was a long night), looked at me, and not missing a beat said, "Ponyboy Curtis if I catch YOU doin' any drugs I'm gonna skin you alive." Apparently, this 'parenting' kick he has going ain't ever gonna end. He then blew a huge smoke ring in my direction and gave me Cheshire cat grin._

 _It was one of those nights._

 _Around 8:00 A.M. in the morning, Soda looked at his watch, "shit, y'all I'm tired, I'm heading to bed." Looking at my notebooks filled with his stories, I had one last question before he hit the hay._

 _"Well, how should I start out?"_

 _"With Phil, start with Phil."_

 _Please see attached the rough draft of "My Brother's War"_

 _Thank you for your consideration._

 _Sincerely,_

 _P.M. Curtis/enc._

 _P.S. I thought about cleaning up the swearing, but it felt more authentic to me with the swear words included, besides, it is how people talk, if some higher up at "Slate, Paper" doesn't like it-well fuck em. ;)_

 _P.P.S. I'm gonna assume you're smart enough not to actually forward this letter to anyone at Slate, Paper._

I look over the letter one more time and consider whitening-out the part about me breaking down like a baby. I mean, I ain't ashamed, really, it's just that I usually don't share that side of myself with other people. Heck, I don't even cry in front of other people. But, I left it in. Benny's a good guy and he knows how much Soda means to me, but also I figure if I kept in the sentimental part Benny would have to publish my story-he'd feel too guilty not to.

As I was placing the manuscript in the envelope, I looked over at my sleeping brother. He still looked younger sleeping than he did awake. As I looked at him, the only word that came to my mind was 'thank you.'

I didn't know who I was talking to, to Soda, to God, to the Vietcong who never hit my brother; maybe to everyone and no one at the same time.

 **My Brother's War**

Phil Mihailovich stood 5'10 and weighed about 175 lbs. He had light auburn, almost red hair and piercing green eyes which earned him the nickname "Irish" despite the fact that no Gaelic blood flowed through his veins.

Among the items Irish brought with him to Vietnam was a book of Sufi poetry, an "Introduction to Buddhism" and an abridged version of the "Marahabata." Phil had been interested in eastern religions ever since he was a little boy growing up among the fishermen and loggers of Pulomaka, Washington.

While the other guys in the platoon were writing letters to their sweethearts and buddies back in the states, Irish read the Marahabata.

At first, Soda was worried that Irish didn't have a family to write to, and that made him pretty sad. But, it turned out Irish did have a family, and they did write to him and he wrote back to them, he just preferred reading.

He had three sisters, all older, and one younger brother. His father was a professor of Oriental Culture and Religions but even a professor's salary wasn't enough to support a family of seven, so in the summer while most of his colleagues were busy doing research projects Mr. Mihailovich worked a logger camp. His real passion though was fly-fishing and Mr. Mihailoivch, usually a rather calm and inoffensive man would go into a tizzy if anyone dared suggested to him that bait fishing was a better alternative _. I first thought about writing 'rage', but Soda assured me that Irish used the word 'tizzy.'_

 _"I don't think Phil's dad ever got real mad Pony, maybe it's a professor thing?"_

But when Irish was ten those debates about bait fishing vs. fly fishing became as worthless as the flies and worms which gave the two forms of fishing their names.

A freak accident at the logging camp caused Mr. Mihailovich to lose 7 fingers, four on one hand, three on another. He would have bled to death if it wasn't for a man by the name of Carl Hopkins who served as a medic in Korea.

The loss of his fingers caused Mr. Mihailovich to go into a deep depression, go on disability and spend all of his time reading Greek poetry-in the original Greek.

"Five time state champion" Irish said sadly, "can you believe it Okie? He was a Professor up at Washington State, but his real passion was fly fishing. Then suddenly, 'poof' it's all gone.

You know, I used to pray to God that he would take my hands and give them to my father, as some kind of transference. I read a lot I figured I didn't need my hands for that, I could just turn the page with my toes."

Soda jotted a mind note to ask me what 'transference' meant when he wrote to me later that evening.

Phil Mihailovic liked Soda, but then again, so did most of the guys in their platoon. Soda was wild and fun, nice-to his fellow soldiers and Vietnamese civilians alike and a good soldier.

The only guy in their platoon that didn't seem to like Soda was Tate Parker who thought Soda was a little bit too wild and way too damn cheerful for this malaria infected hellhole.

Most of the other guys would have just made a smart remark about Phil's reading habits, but Soda seemed genuinely interested.

Phil didn't know why Soda seemed to take such a shine to him, they seemed as different as two people could be. Phil was the quiet the son of a fisherman-intellectual, Soda was the loud, wild former greaser who talked about getting into rumbles the same way Phil's dad used to talk about capturing an elusive catch.

Until he met Sodapop Curtis Phil's one interaction with a greaser was Johnny Skinozi, a boy whose vocabulary seemed limited to "fuck" "you" and "asshole." Johnny spent four years bullying Phil, knocking books out of his hands and throwing Phil down the stairs. They graduated high school a year ago, and then suddenly, poof Johnny just disappeared.

Soda's face would light up when he talked to Phil about all of the rodeos he used to ride in. Phil was allergic to horses.

Soda could talk up a storm, while Phil preferred to watch and observe.

He didn't speak great English, his speech peppered with slang and ain'ts, and Phil, the son of an English professor, had to stop himself from correcting Soda's grammar.

Phil was a draftee. At first Soda had a hard time believing that a professor's kid ended up a private in the Army, but Phil reminded him, " _former_ professor's kid."

Soda, like most of the kids, and they were kids, who ended up in Vietnam joined the army.

But despite their differences they both found it easy to talk to one another and despite everything that separated them, a friendship formed.

"Hey, Curtis how many times have you gotten laid?" Soda turned around and saw Tate Parker sitting in his bunk, his arms crossed a bemused smile on his face.

"We're taking an informal survey," Parker continued, "the guy with the fewest fucks, I'm taking him over to the Can-Can Club, my treat."

Soda shouted out a number that may have exaggerated his sexual prowess but maintained his reputation.

Irish's ears turn bright red, and Soda realized that Irish was probably still a virgin.

"What about you, Irish, you pop any cherries?" Parker made a popping sound with his mouth.

Parker is leering over at Irish, and Soda is getting pretty uncomfortable, because it seems like Parker knows that the answer is, and just wants to embarrass him.

But, not missing a beat and in a nonchalant voice, Irish answers honestly.

Soda cringes. Because, man, there's a time and place for honesty and a time and place for exaggerations and bravado and if Irish didn't know the difference between the two than he was even more SOL than Soda thought.

"Well, I'll be a fucking monkey's uncle, I knew you were weird Irish, I didn't know you were that weird."

"Fuck off, Parker" Soda glared at him. He didn't understand why Irish just didn't make up a number. He also made a silent vow that he would look after Irish so that Irish would be come back home and find a nice little American girl to screw.

Tate boasted that he lost his virginity when he was twelve.

""Yeah, fucking your sister ain't nothin' to be proud of," Soda said to him.

Before he knew it, Parker was up in his face, his fist pointed directly at Soda's mouth."

"Say that again, pretty boy, and I'll knock all em pretty teeth right out of your pretty face." Soda insisted that this is what Parker said to him, despite my consternation that it sounded like bad movie dialogue.

 _"Shit Pony, ain't my fault the guy talked like that, I'm just tellin' you the story as I remember."_

Soda was never one to back away from a fight, hell, he liked fighting. But, he wasn't the same kid he was at 16. He knew that he, Tate and Irish were all on the same side here, and when a guy is responsible for your life, it's best not to piss him off. Besides, Soda hated dentists.

Soda put his hands up in a surrender motion, "don't mean nothing by it man, let's just cool down." He stuck out his hand in a peace offering, and to his surprise, Parker shook it and walked away.

It was right then that Soda remembered what his mother used to say to him every time he tried to get out of trouble as a kid, "Soda Curtis, you could charm the pants off the devil."

Soda was right about Parker though. He had no intention of "treating" Irish to a night on the town, he just wanted to embarrass him.

Irish didn't appear embarrassed at all. He just shrugged his shoulders at Parker and went back to reading his book.

"Hell," Soda whispered to Irish that night, "I bet half of these guys are still virgins. You and me, we'll go to the Can-Can Club tonight, on me."

To his surprise, Phil looked at Soda with an earnest grin and said "sure."

The Can-Can Club was officially a little bar/peep show and unofficially a brothel, located on base.

It looked as if the Fourth of July and a cheap Vietnamese Brothel had gotten in a fight and you weren't quite sure who had won. It was decorated with posters from John Wayne movies, colored paper lamps, pictures of Playboy Bunnies and a Buddha statue sitting on an old night stand. On the night stand someone wrote in marker, "me suck you dick Joe."

The waitresses were local girls, dressed in tiny red, white and blue skirts with sequined stars attached to their lapels. They called themselves "Mary Jo," "Barbara Anne," and other wholesome all American names. All that seemed to do was remind the soldiers of how far away from home they really were.

All Soda thought of was how much trouble, er, fun, his buddies from back home would find in a place like "The Can-Can Club."

Soda didn't planning on having sex that night, just talk, drink a few beers and serve as moral support for Irish. But, like most plans involving the Americans in Vietnam, those plans went to waste. He slept with a girl who called herself Roxanne, or was it Roseanne? She was pretty had real soft skin and long hair. Soda rubbed his fingers over her breast, watching her nipples turn hard, which made him get hard in turn.

After they were finished, Soda gave Roxanne/Roseanne some money and walked out of the room. It felt nice at the time, but he realized it didn't mean anything to him.

When he came out of the room Soda saw Irish talking to a girl. Soda gave the thumbs-up sign, but as he moved in closer, he realized that Irish was speaking to the girl in Vietnamese.

"You've got to be shitting me man, I had no idea you could speak Vietnamese."

"I don't speak it very well, I mostly just rely on this," he said, pointing to a Vietnamese-English dictionary in his lap.

"Shit," Soda said with a grin, "you are something else."

Soda had given Irish instructions for that night: "take it slow, make sure she likes it, and don't forget about them titties." He also supplied Irish with some condoms and cash, but seeing that Irish was still talking to the girl, and Soda still had an itch to scratch he took some of the cash back and went off to find another girl.

When Soda returned, Irish and the girl, whose name it turned out was "Van" were still talking. Van made wild gestures with her hands and spoke in a loud, animated voice. Irish just looked at her, his eyes sparkling, every now and then letting out a huge loon laugh.

That night at camp Irish gave Soda back the condoms and the cash, all unused. "Here you go Okie, thanks for everything."

"Keep it Irish, ya never know when you're gonna need it. Besides, you seemed pretty sweet on that girl in the Can-Can Club…"

Irish just smiled at Soda, but Soda knew he was thinking only about Van.

"Thanks for everything, and um, can you not call me Irish? That nickname annoys the hell out of me. Call me Phil."

"Sure thing, Ir-I mean Phil, only if you call me Soda, I ain't too wild about being called Okie either."

Phil couldn't stop talking about Van, about her childhood in a hamlet outside Saigon, about her family, but most of all about her dreams of traveling the world, seeing the Eifel Tower and meeting Bridget Bardot.

"Irish is really sweet on this girl, her cooch must be as wet as a fucking waterfall." Phil walked up to Parker and before anyone had time to react, punched him in the nose-breaking it.

Usually, when guys like Parker are humiliated they react in two ways: they lash out or they bow down. To everyone's surprise, Parker stopped his beef with Phil and developed if not quite a friendship, a grudging respect for the guy.

"Fuck, all Parker had to do was insult Irish's Mama San and Irish fucked up Parker's nose like it was sloppy joes."

That made Private Curtis instantly remember just how much he missed eating sloppy joes.

Vietnam, when you're not being blown up or ripped apart, is a beautiful country.

 _"Like an acid trip, a fucked up acid trip where half of 'em little goblins are trying to kill you, but if you get a break, you see just the most peaceful and beautiful colors, I miss that Pony."_ That's how Soda tried to explain it to me and I nodded, but I couldn't really understand.

* * *

Pony gave me a copy of his rough draft and I looked it over. "What do you think Soda?" His eyes are bugging with a need for approval, and because I love him and because I can't give him anything else, I give him that.

"Real good Pony."

Darry beaks out into a grin, "this is great Pony," and I give a weak smile to my brothers.

"nice to his fellow soldiers and civilians alike," aww man Ponyboy, if only you knew, if only you knew.

Darry knows the truth, at least a fraction of the truth, but there is some stuff I can't even tell Darry about.

I look at Darry and he's teasing Pony about something and I'm watching them, and it's like they're on T.V. and I'm sitting in the living room watching them but not being able to interact with them.

Just watching them.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**


	11. Welcome to Vietnam (Part II)

**This chapter continues where "Welcome to Vietnam" left off. For the unfamiliar, Soda and his crew faced a small ambush and although no one was injured, the village from which the ambush was laid is being destroyed in retaliation. Usual warnings apply.**

* * *

I'm sitting here, overlooking a rice paddy still puffing away on my cancer stick.

Because what the hell am I supposed to do?

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the red and orange flames turn black and grey and then sorta disappear; but not before making a huge explosion that looks like a 4th of July display on speed.

Trippy, huh?

See what I mean when I say you don't gotta be high to be HIGH in Vietnam?

I'm on my fifth cigarette, and I'm thinking of whom I'm going to bum some more sticks from this evening, and what I'm gonna have to barter with them in exchange. Chocolate? C-Rations?

The four cigarettes I've already smoked form a cross on the ground. I didn't do it on purpose, they just fell out of my hands that way.

And, I'm not saying that they're a sign, or a symbol, or they mean anything other than I've developed quite a little habit in the course of a month; but I'd be lying to you if I didn't admit that it gave me the shivers.

Dad never had much use for God and even less for religion, while Mom had a deep, but quiet faith. The last time I was in church was their funeral; which is probably why the place gives me the heebie-jeebies to this day.

I'd be a lyin' SOB if I didn't admit that since I got here I've prayed. Don't know who or what I'm praying for, or to, but I pray.

I glance up at Irish, I mean, Phil; still smoking the same damn cigarette, taking long, slow puffs.

"Hey Philly, how do ya know about the elephants and all about Vietnam, they didn't teach us that stuff in Boot, did they?"

Boot camp by the way was a blast, and by that I mean a total bitch of a time. Not that I was expecting a picnic or nothing.

I did real good at combat practice and marksmanship. In fact, I got the highest score on the marksmanship test. Who woulda thought that all those huntin' trips Dad took us on would have paid off?

I did pretty good with all of the strength test, I mean, I'm not Darry, but I've never been lacking when it comes to muscles.

I did okay running all of those marathons, but let's just say Ponyboy is the track star of my family.

I did shit on the written tests-but hey, what else is new?

Hell, if I ever aced a test you know the end of the world is coming.

Thing is, when I was in those classes I really paid attention. I mean, I tried in school, but not like this. I buckled down, because shit, this wasn't like algebra or history; this could mean the difference between life and death. So there I am leaning towards the Sargent who's teaching the class, pencil in my hand, getting ready to take notes like I've never taken notes in my life.

And what do I get?

A two hour class. Eight weeks, two hours. They taught us a few phases of Vietnamese, and man, is it a hard language! The Sarge was this guy from Kentucky and his accent was so thick and laid on I felt like I was in the middle of hillbilly jamboree. I mean I know I got a twang, but that guy, Jeez.

They showed us some maps and they told us we "gotta be careful of them Orientals because they were sneaky." That was the entire class.

Phil was in the class with me and he looked dead ahead at the Sarge, no emotion on his face, but I looked down at his hands and they were gripping the desk with such anger. I don't think I've ever seen Irish angry before.

I just snuck a yawn and tried to give him a smirk, but he looked straight ahead, still gripping that desk.

I thought about calling Pony and asking him to share all he knew about Vietnam, but I didn't want to scare him and I didn't want to scare myself so I ended up here green as grass and blind as a bat.

But a bat who can shoot real well.

So there's that.

Phil talks about his dad, the former professor who lost seven fingers, and I'm tryin' to imagine what that would be like. I mean, how do you deal with having part of your body one moment and have it go missing the next?

I think about Johnny, my buddy, who would have been crippled for life had he survived. How do you deal with that? How do you handle looking at your fingers, or your hands or your legs and know that they are not there, or that they don't work anymore?

I wonder what would be worse, to lose part of your body-like Phil's dad, or to still have your legs and arms, but to know that they don't work anymore?

I look at Phil, and he's still puffing away, but his eyes have a far away look to them. His voice is stilted and I can tell he don't want to talk about his folks, even as I see the tiniest bit of a wistful smile sneak up on his lips.

So, I drop the subject.

And I think of his dad, who spent years teaching kids about Vietnam and the Orient, only to lose his job and end up with a kid who gets drafted to fight in Vietnam as a soldier.

I take another puff on my cigarette because, what the hell am I supposed to do?

And maybe I look down at my fingers and count my blessings.

* * *

Our job is to go into the village, count the dead Cong bodies, interrogate the survivors and take their weapons.

Easy-Peasy. You know, just another day in Vietnam.

* * *

When I was a little kid I use spin around and make myself real dizzy.

I can still hear Darry, "Soda! You bump into me one more time and I'm gonna clobber you."

And he would.

And I would still continue to twirl around, laughing, even though I felt like I was going to throw up.

That's what Vietnam is like.

It can make you dizzy.

So, there are times when we go into these villages to win hearts and minds, or at least prevent Charlie from winning their men, food and weapons. We go into these villages and help them fix a well, or find a runaway water buffalo. We give their kids their immunizations and play with them, and I kinda like that. Playing with the kids, I mean.

I like kids. I know I ain't exactly a winning number: poor, dumb and no prospects, but I want to have a wife and house full of kids when I'm a bit older. And it's fun playing with the kids.

There was one village we visited last week...

For a second I almost forget I'm in a war zone. It doesn't matter that they don't speak any English and my Vietnamese is limited to a few words, we play with each other and I give one of them a horsey ride on my back.

The little girl, maybe 18 months or so, grips my shoulder and she's only a baby, but man, does she hold on tight.

And she laughs and there's snot coming down her nose and I wipe it clean with my handkerchief.

Parker mummers that I'm "Florence fuckin' Nightingale"; and when the kid ain't looking, I give T.P. the finger.

And the whole scene is sweet, I mean, gag me sweet. Too sweet. But, this is Vietnam. Ain't nothing nice about this place.

And to prove it, the cute little girl goes to the bathroom right on me.

You better believe Parker thought that was a riot.

Next time I check to make sure the kid it toilet trained before I let her use my body as her personal jungle gym.

Because all while I'm playing with those kids someone else is pressing a gun to their daddy's head, asking him if any Charlie has been sneaking up their villages at night; someone is interrogating their big brothers and going through their rice-making sure there ain't enough to feed an army.

And sometimes, that person is me.

And I'm good at that part of my job too.

I don't know what to feel about that. All my life it bummed me that people thought I was a softy because of the way I look, or because I'm friendly to people; but now I get a chance to take charge and yell at people and worse; and I don't know what to make of it.

And it makes me so dizzy because friendly village, enemy village, they all spin around in my head.

* * *

This village is flattened, but there are a few hooches that are still standing. Randomness of luck, I guess. We go through the village, and I'm hoping we don't see any dead kids or dead women. I know that the women can be Cong too, but I don't like the idea of killing women unless we have no choice.

Heck, I don't even like the idea of killing anyone unless we don't have a choice.

Three dead. All men.

They don't look like much, wan thin and maybe middle aged or so; although one looks like he's in his early thirties.

Part of me is disappointed that these are the guys that tried to ambush us.

One of the dead has his brains slowly dripping out of his head, like a slow waterfall. Dark red and brown blood seeps out of the bodies. One guy is missing half his torso.

"Three V.C. down," Cooper calls in on the radio.

"That's gonna be thirty V.C. down by this evening," I mutter to Cooper. He gives me a wry grin. He knows the score.

All men are considered V.C. regardless if they're armed or not and let's just say we use some creative math to count the number of dead.

Out of all of the guys in the unit, Charlie Cooper is the one who I just can't make sense of. After a clean-up operation he'll go through the field and with surgical precision cut off the fingers of them Vietcong and turn them into necklaces and bracelets. He would organize the fingers by color, shape and size. The necklace he wore today was called "fat Dink" since it consisted of the thumbs from chubbier Vietcong soldiers.

It creeps me out, not just the whole grossness of wearing a shriveled up finger around your neck, but the grossness of taking someone's body like that. I think about them sometimes, the Vietcong guys whose fingers Cooper wears around his neck, what were they like? Do they cut off the fingers of our guys after a fight?

I think of Phil and his dad and his dad's missing fingers.

I know it ain't the same, but I think of someone wearing Mr. Mihailovich's fingers around their neck like a wreath.

The thing about Cooper though, he is a damn good soldier. I mean it. He's calm, methodical and meticulous, he never loses his temper and he has lightning fast reflexes. I ain't never heard anything about him messin' up while in the field.

He's whip smart, strong and a real leader; he just likes collecting dead body parts.

He's like the perfect soldier during the battle and then turns into a weirdo after the battle is done.

He's always sent out for the most difficult missions and there's something almost soothing about his presence, I mean, if you ain't V.C.

* * *

There's one survivor. An old lady. Phil is talking to her and I'm standing guard over her, even though she ain't much of a threat. Heck, would just be my luck if this Mamasan takes me out.

Phil is interrogating her, only it's more a conversation than an interrogation. He's the only one of us who really speaks and understands Vietnamese. The old lady, she's chubby and I'm kinda surprised because most of the Vietnamese we meet are real small. But this lady, she's fat with a double chin and puffed up cheeks. She has on old sandals made from strips of tires, and I think of Steve back home at the DX.

It's amazing how the most random things can get me thinking of home.

"Ol' Mama over there didn't miss any breakfast, heck we just need to cut her up to find the missing gooks, she probably swallowed them whole," Parker says to me, and I laugh even if part of me feels bad for making fun of an old lady.

What's up with me?

I fucking shoot people, but here I am feeling guilty cause we're making fun of a old fat lady.

But that's Vietnam. You can look over at the bodies of three dead guys and feel this sense of strange detachment, but you don't want to hurt some old lady's feelings.

Chavez is trying to wrestle a pig to the ground. He hoovers his body over the pig and just as he's about to grab it, the fucker gets away from him and part of me is rootin' for the pig.

Chavez imitates the pig's squeal and he looks like he having a good ol' time and I kinda want to join him.

"Suuey! Suuey! come here you muthafuckin' pig!" We can hear him yell from inside the hooch.

But that old woman, she glares at me. It's a hard set glare with no softness or flexibility. It's hate manifested. But it's not raw, it's controlled. It reminds me of how Tim controls his boys-just real tight, harsh and controlled.

She continues to glare at me, and I shiver. Not Parker, not Phil, not even Chavez, just me. Part of me wants to get in her face and ask her what the fuck her problem is?

And this lady, she ain't my enemy, but she ain't my friend either; but I hate, I just hate that she don't like me.

Because deep down I want her to like me, even as I'm with an Army that blew up her village, I want her to still like me. Why? Because I'm Soda Curtis, and I ain't got much going for me, but _people like me_. That's who I am. These little kids, they jump up on me and play with me and even their mamas and their grandmas and grandpas smile at me.

I don't rough up the women or the old people. I just don't do it. I can't do it. I don't know if that makes me a pansy or a good guy, maybe a bit of both. Guys, yeah I'm rough with them-ain't got much of problem being rough with a bunch of guys, hell, I've been doing it most of my life. But old people and kids? I try my best to be polite and nice.

But this cooze, she wants to take that away from me.

She's sitting on a stool and I notice that her teeth are black. I cringe.

"What's up with her teeth?" I whisper to Phil, "they look real rotten."

And maybe there's the little part of me that thinks that if we fix up her teeth she would like me. Which is stupid and dumb and selfish.

I can be a real selfish asshole sometimes, and I hate that part of myself.

"They're not rotten, it is because she chews betel nut, it's supposed to stop tooth aches."

I nod. Feeling for the first time that I can understand this woman, "I hate the dentist too," I say softly. She scowls.

So much for my new friend.

* * *

I see a flash and hear a bang a few pop-pop-pop sounds and Chavez fires his weapon. I run out of the hooch to give Chavez cover. I start spraying bullets in the same direction Chavez sprays them, but no one shoots back at us.

"Muthafucka shot at me," Chavez explains, his voice fast and pressured, "bullet missed me by a centimeter."

On the floor is a kid around 17, blood seeping from his chest and a rifle at his side.

"He musta hid when we were searchin' the hamlet."

Phil interrogates the old lady again, but this time it's a real interrogation and not just a chat. We have her look at the dead boy seeing if there is any emotion on her face, seeing if she knows him. But, her face is blank and passive and empty. It's still tightly controlled though, still closed off.

How the fuck did this happen? How did we miss this kid? Yeah, he didn't hit Chavez, but who knows how many Cong could have been hiding up in this hole while we talked this old lady?

And I'm thinking that her glare at me wasn't directed so much at me, but because I was close to the kid's hiding place outside the house.

I laugh, because you gotta appreciate the irony. Here I am worried that this old lady don't like me, and it turns out she got nothing against me personally, she just wants me and my guys dead.

Ha Ha

We're determined not to make the same mistake twice. Grenades are thrown into the still standing hooches.

The old lady just stands that passively, watching the hooches blow up. I kind of want to tell her to look away, that she shouldn't look at her neighbor's houses being destroyed.

But, I keep quiet.

I look at her real careful, but every time she catches me looking at her, she gives me a dirty look.

I look away.

I look down at the trail of blood from one of the dead Cong guys.

It doesn't spook me as much.

We turn over every corner of the old lady's hut. And boy does she look pissed. I can understand that, but lady, that's what happens when some stupid kid tries to shoot one of my buddies.

But I don't feel good. I know that we are in her house, going through her meager possessions while she watches us with her blackened teeth.

If my mom could see me…

I shiver.

I pick up a plate that's on the floor and neatly dust if off. I place it back real gently on the table. I rub the table with my hand. It's the only piece of solid furniture in this dump. Someone put a lot of effort into making that table. Maybe it was the kid, or one of the men. Maybe the same guy who tried to ambush us also made that table. Maybe in his previous life he was a carpenter, still wanted to be a carpenter, but then the war broke out and he became a soldier.

Maybe he didn't want to shoot at us. Maybe he did. Who knows?

I continue to put the items back where I found them, going through a great show of being careful and respectful with her stuff.

"See, lady" I want to say, "see how much care I take care of your stuff? Some kiddo tried to shoot one of my buds, but I'm still treating your shit with kid gloves. See, I am nice, you bitch."

But I don't say anything of course. I just give her a smile, my patented Sodapop Curtis "you gotta love it" grin.

She glares back at me.

To quote Chavez, "mothafucka!"

* * *

We don't find any more Cong. The other villagers musta hightailed it earlier, probably before the ambush. I think of the fat old lady. Her family probably told her to leave before the ambush, knowing what could happen to her. And she, full of piss and vinegar, told them to get lost, that if some foreign devils killed her that was between her and Buddha.

And whether she's Cong or not. Whether she knew about the ambush or not, that's kinda brave.

* * *

We're back at base. We're gonna cook up the pig for supper. Chavez says he needs to take a piss.

"Yeah, don't forget to say hi to Mr. Johnson," I tease. I caught Chavez masturbating to Penthouse out in the latrine one night.

Chavez is a good guy. Some guys like Parker, I don't tease because they're assholes. Some guys like Cooper I don't tease cause I respect him and because I'm sorta scared of him. But Chavez, I can tease.

It's nice in the middle of all this shit to laugh and joke with a guy.

"Y'all need a woman," I told him. But Chavez had a girl, a pretty thing named Clara back home. He told me that maybe he'd screw a round eyed woman if one came to him on base, but none did. He's sorta ugly. I'm not trying to be mean, just stating the facts. Besides most of the American women, if they fuck anyone, fuck the higher ups, not us lonely grunts.

Yeah, there are greasers and socs even over here in the middle of this malaria booby trapped hell hole.

So poor Chavez was stuck with Penthouse and dreams of Clara.

After about thirty minutes Chavez ain't coming out of the latrine.

Glory, he must be havin' a real good time in there.

Another twenty minutes and Chavez is still in there.

I'm starting to get a bit worried.

I see him. Fallen in a pile of shit, flies above his head, clutching his chest. The shit gets all over my boots as I pull him up. I'm glad he's a small guy and I'm able to hoist him up with relative ease.

I gag, but hold onto him. I'm not letting him stay in a pool of crap. I'm not doing that to him. He deserves better.

My hands are covered in shit.

* * *

Chavez had a heart attack. Like that. How the hell does a healthy 19 year old soldier have a fuckin' heart attack? I mean, you can't make that up.

* * *

We have a little ceremony for Chavez.

It's my idea that we take some of Chavez's pot and smoke it in honor of him.

"Yeah, right, Curtis just wants to get high," that's Luke speaking.

I shrug and give him a crazy grin. He's kinda got my number, but who the hell wouldn't want to get high after you see a guy dead in pool of runny shit?

"So now Saint Curtis of the Okies wants to smoke weed with us. Just figures, takin' weed from a dead guy."

I glare at Parker, and man, I am this close to punching his lights out.

But instead, I just imitate a smoke ring and blow it his way.

"Well, it coulda been worse, he could have died right before his tour ended." That was from Mr. Sensitivity, Tate Parker.

I roll my eyes.

Glory, it's just gonna be my luck that I die the day before I'm scheduled to leave this place.

I've been here a month and I've seen more than my fair share of bodies and that changes you. Not in the obvious ways though. Like before I got here, death was sacred and nothing to joke about. Now we laugh about Chavez dying in a pool of shit. We laugh till it hurts and laugh again to take away the hurt.

And I feel guilty, remembering Chavez lying in a latrine, holding his heart; so every time a feeling of guilt crosses my mind, I take another hit.

And I laugh again.

I try to tell myself that Chavez would be laughing himself, and you know what? I like to think that's true.

I'm giggling but I'm sure as hell glad that my folks and my brothers can't see me, because I'm ashamed of myself.

But, I can't help but laugh.

It's funny, don't you see? Some guy survives an ambush and some kid shooting at him in one day, only to have a fucking heart attack in a literal shit hole.

That's Vietnam for you. No matter what you survive you end up covered in shit anyway.

Ha, ha, ha. You laughing?

 _Muthafucka._

So there we are, getting high talking about our buddy and making jokes about him, for him, and at his expense.

We laugh, but it's not a gentle laugh or a comfortable laugh, it's all of us hooting and hollering and going crazy with giggles.

And let me tell you something, Vietnamese pot is fucking strong. I mean, man alive.

"No wonder this place is so weird," I tell Phil, "this weed is something else."

"No shit," he says. And I laugh and I'm almost on the ground laughing, because hell, it's funny and it's the first time Phil has shown a sense of humor.

"You think we should tell Chavez's family where he died?"

I crock my head and look at Phil. I may be high and stupid, but I ain't _that_ high and stupid.

"Nope," I grin, "we'll just tell him that he was battling a bunch of real shitty soldiers, but his heart just wasn't in it."

That started another round of laughter.

I look at Cooper and he's fingering one of the fat fingers he keeps in his personal collection.

He thrusts the shriveled up finger upwards so it seems like the finger is giving us all "the finger". And I know it's bad, and I know it's gross, but it's funny. It's fucking gross and hilarious at the same time-like dying in a pile of crap.

I try not to think of the guy whose hand the finger once belonged to.

* * *

That night I dream about Chavez, I dream about how I found him covered in shit and piss, clutching his heart.

And maybe it's because I'm still high, or maybe it's because this entire country is one big acid trip; but I swear to you I can still hear him, "muthafucka, muthafucka."

And he's giving me the finger.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**


	12. The Worst Thing I Did

_**A/N: This is a flash forward scene, it takes place after Soda comes home from Vietnam.**_

 _ **This entire scene is a conversation between Soda and a woman in a cafe. Soda talks about a very pivotal moment in his experience in Vietnam.**_

 _ **But, I'm only showing Soda's part of the conversation, in this chapter. Hopefully the conversational style reads well. :)**_

* * *

 _ **1969**_

 _Scene: A non-descript diner somewhere in California. A man and woman are seated at a booth, talking and eating. The man has long, shaggy blondish-brown hair, he's wearing an old pair of faded blue jeans, blue sneakers and an olive green army jacket in spite of the 80 degree weather.. He's eating a patty melt; she's eating a cup of Minestrone. They're chatting away. He has a nice smile, but his eyes are blank. There is no emotion or expression to them._

The man starts to talk:

You want to know more about me? Hmm, something you don't know. I mean, I don't know what else to tell ya, darling, we did just spend 6 hours on a Greyhound together. By the way, thanks for sportin' me a five. Really appreciate it. This root beer float is delicious, haven't had one this good since I was a little kid.

Hell, the only people who know more about my life than you are my brother and God.

Yeah, I know I don't have to say anything more about the war if I don't want to.

But maybe I like to talk. Maybe, I want to talk. Okay, here goes:

I'm a good liar. My younger brother, Pony, is a damn Einstein at lying. But then again, he's an Einstein at everything. Growing up, I always figured his ability to weave a fib was due to the fact that he was always reading.

My other brother, Darry, almost as smart as Pony, but in a more concrete, practical way, can't lie worth shit. It's funny. Picture this 6'2 Jerry Rhome of a quarterback turning tomato red and stammerin' his ass off.

They're both good guys.

Me? Growing up I couldn't lie worth shit either, I would burst out laughing half way before I even got to the end.

But now, I can lie with the best of 'em.

Like when I came home from Vietnam, I tried my best to pretend everything was normal with me, you dig? But I know I wasn't foolin' my brothers. I know that little Einstein was probably all readin' up on how crazy soldiers get when they come home.

Like one day, Darry was fixin' our kitchen faucet, and he accidently dropped the pipe on the floor, made a huge crash and everything. I was at the kitchen table when it happened. I turned white and jumped up like a little ol' scardy cat. Darry looked at me with such a look of empathy and sadness, like he wanted to give me a fuckin' hug or something.

Sorry for all my swearin' hon, I usually don't swear like this in front of chicks.

But here's the thing. My brother probably thought I was having a flashback, dreamin about getting banged on by ol' Charlie. But I wasn't. I wasn't having a flashback. I was just jumpy because he dropped the goddamned pipe on the floor. I have bad dreams, and sometimes I have bad dreams about the war, but the war itself don't really cause me nightmares.

No, here's the thing I lie about every day; _I miss war._

Yeah, ain't that a fucker?

I miss it. I sure as hell don't miss gettin' shot at, or seeing my buddies being torn to kingdom come, I don't even miss blastin' away at Charlie. I never liked shootin' people. I sure as hell don't miss the MREs or the shit, or the damn malaria and fevers. But, I miss the emotions, I miss the feelings.

I've never felt more alive in my life than when I was in battle.

And now I have nothing.

When I was in high school I was in love with this neighborhood girl. I mean puppy love and the whole she-bang. It didn't work out between us, but at the time I didn't think I could ever love anyone like I did this girl. But, then I met Irish and the other guys in my unit. I ain't never experienced that sort of love before in my life. I ain't talkin' about nothing queer or that shit. Just love.

I just, well, when I was little kid I always felt things real deep. You know? I mean, if my little brother got hurt, it was like I got hurt. If someone broke my big brother's heart, they might as well have stabbed me in the gut. I didn't know what to do with all of my feelings. So, I got into tons of fights, drag races, dance competitions, anything and everything I could think of to burn all of the emotion and feelings I had inside of me.

I grew up in a neighborhood where all of the kids drank. I didn't. Not because I was a goody two-shoes, but because I didn't need too. Just livin' was my high.

Ain't that something? I didn't smoke either, I was a regular Beaver Fucking Cleaver.

So I signed up for the Army and go through Basic and I fucking hate it. I realize the reason I hate it so much is because it is so regulated and controlled. Plus, the Drill Sargent was a real hard ass. I don't have a way to get my high. But when I'm finally sent to Nam, I don't know how to describe it.

I have never felt emotions like I did in Nam. I ain't never felt that intensity before. Lot of the guys in my unit started to use, but I didn't need to, not until the very end when I really fucked things up. I didn't use for most of my time there, not because I was better than they were, but because being with my unit was my high. I loved those guys and they loved me. It was real intense. It meant so much to me. They meant so much to me. They still mean so much to me.

I ended up going home, and I got to see my brothers again. I love my brothers, ya dig? I mean, I would die for those guys, ain't no questions asked. When I was over in Nam, I missed the hell out of them, but when I get back home, things just ain't the same for me. Cause as the days turned into weeks and months I started to feel this numbness. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how glad I was to see them again, I couldn't recapture that emotion and those feelings that I had in Vietnam.

My war is over and I don't know who the hell I am anymore.

My entire life I was Sodapop Curtis, Darrel and Jo Curtis's middle boy, Darry and Pony's brother, but for the first time in my life, that don't seem like enough.

But how could I tell my brothers that? How could I tell the guys I love more than anything in the world that I want to go back into a war zone? That I could never recapture those emotions, that love, that craziness that I had in Vietnam in Tulsa?

It's like my life in Vietnam was all different colors-some dark, some light, some that jumped out on the page at ya; and my life in Tulsa is just black and white. How can I tell my brothers that no matter how hard they try, they can't give me what I really need?

I couldn't do that to them. I love 'em both too much to hurt them like that.

I'm not ranking on them. They're both too good and too normal to understand my fucked up mind.

So, I'm in Tulsa tryin' my best to get back to normal life. But what the hell is normal life? Cause workin' in a gas station don't cut it for me anymore. I stay out all night, bang a bunch of chicks. I'm sorry, you didn't need to know that. I even start doing rodeos again. But nothing. None of that helps me. If anything, it just makes the whole fucking thing worse. Because rodeos, chicks, drag races, all these things which gave me a natural high before I went to Vietnam, ain't doin' shit for me now.

I start doing more and more H, because it's the only thing that numbs me enough so I don't have to think about how screwed up I am for wanting to go back to Vietnam.

But I started to have nightmares and one night, I messed up real badly. I scared the shit out of my little brother. I hurt him too. I mean, I could have really fucked him over. I'm lucky, he's lucky that he's so damn strong. I didn't mean to, but when you hurt someone you're supposed to protect, that don't mean shit.

Yeah, I'm okay. Again, I'm sorry for all my swearin', this ain't like me.

So, I left. I knew that if I left I would hurt his feelings, but if I stayed, I would have destroyed him, so here I am. All bright-eyed, bushy tailed and high as kite.

See, I got ya to smile. Guess I still got it.

I've been gone a week.

I haven't called or talked to either one of 'em. I don't plan to either. They're better off without me.

I miss them so much. But even more, I miss the person I use to be with them. I miss me.

But here's another thing they don't know.

My brother, he don't know what caused me to lose my shit that one night. Like I said, I've had bad dreams about what I saw and did, but I usually held my shit together. Not that night. Neither of them knows the worst thing I've done in Vietnam.

The worst thing I ever did in Nam had nothin' to do with killin' people, but it was coming home. Because while I came home to one family, I left another family behind.

I had this chick, her name was Anna. Vietnamese girl, a real babe, I mean, gorgeous but sorta an asshole. Let's just say that this scar on my forehead is courtesy of her temper.

Yup, I ain't woolfin' you, the only visible wound I got in Vietnam is from this 5'4 barmaid.

Fuck, she hated me. I had no love for her either. But we fucked. I mean, we ripped each other apart one night. Best sex I ever had. And I ain't gonna go into details cause you're a lady, no I mean it, you're a lady, and I'm not much of a gentleman anymore, but I know enough not to go into details with you.

In fact, I probably said too much already, I'm sorry. You know I haven't spoken to a woman one on one in such a long time, I feel like I don't know how to make polite conversation anymore.

So yeah we did it one time. One time and she gets knocked up. Light the cigars, huh?

Of course just my luck I knock up this real serious Catholic chick, so she ain't gonna get rid of it.

Just figures, a country full of Buddhist and I knock up this Catholic chick who thinks birth control is a sin; but has no problem breaking a beer bottle over my head or jumpin' into bed with me even though we ain't married.

Well, that's a story for another time. Like I said, she was crazy, and I was crazy.

I was gonna do right by her. I don't like her, but I'm gonna ask her to marry me.

I don't want my baby to be born a bastard, you know what I mean?

She thinks I'm trash (she's a real smart cookie, although she's totally crazy). And I ain't trying to diss her either, she would have about a hundred of vicious things to say about me if she was here in my place.

Most of 'em true, by the way.

But we're gonna have a kid. I'm gonna marry her and bring her to the States. Not because I loved her, but because it was my duty.

And she wants to go to the States.

So we play the lovey-dovey couple, tryin' to get permission for her to come home with me.

It's a riot. She's one hell of an actress, almost wins them over too.

But, I was just a lonely grunt and I couldn't get permission to take her home with me. I was gonna ask for another tour, just so I could have the chance of seein' my kid grow up.

So, she's all big bellied and I'm back out in the field. And things happen, real bad things happen in the jungle.

Real, real, bad. Okay, Okay, okay?

… _(2 minutes pass, nothing is said)_

I'm sorry, I got lost in my thoughts.

No, darlin' I'm okay.

Anyway, back to Anna and the baby. I'm too ashamed to tell my brothers about what I did. Oh, yeah, she gets moved from Base and ends up movin' to Saigon. I don't remember much about what happened out there, then one day I find out she had the baby.

Shortly after the baby was born, I was able to get a three day pass and visit them.

I fucked up. Real bad.

First everything is okay, even Anna is sorta happy to see me. And I see my baby.

And this kid, he ain't conceived in love and his parents don't like each other; but I see him and all I see is love. All I feel is love.

For him.

For the first time I feel this darkness slowly go away, and I'm not at peace, I've done and seen too many things to be at peace; but lookin' my little guy it finally hits me, I'm a dad.

And I look at my kiddo and I smile at him.

He smiles back at me.

Yeah, I know what they say that babies that age can't smile, but I swear to you, my kid was smiling.

I spend the night with them. And it hits me again, I'm a daddy.

And I need to protect my kid. From everyone and everything. I need to look after him.

He's so tiny and helpless; but he's watching me and I know he sees everything.

Then at night. It goes bad. He's crying. Real loud. Anna tells me to hold him.

And I look at him, in this little drawer which serves as his crib.

Because lookin' at my kid, all I could see was me. All I could see was the man I had become. The monster I am. I couldn't put him through that. I didn't want to straddle any kid with a dad like me.

He was so perfect. So fucking perfect, I mean, there's part of me that couldn't believe that I created _that._

This goodness that no longer exists in me, was in this little boy. He was all good. Don't you see?

He ain't like me. He ain't messed up, he ain't broken.

He's pure and good and whole.

When I was a little kid my mom told me that "God is love" well, my kid was love. He's good. So, good.

And I was gonna contaminate him. I was gonna transfer all of my evil to him.

I couldn't do that to him. I had to keep him pure. I had to protect him from me.

Anna wasn't the boogeyman, not even the war, I was the boogeyman.

Yeah, no, I'm okay, I'm okay. I want to tell you this story, I need to tell it to you.

Thank you, yeah, I need a sip of water.

Okay, I'm gonna continue…

I freaked out.

I don't remember what I did.

 _I don't want to remember._

No, I didn't hurt him, I didn't hurt him, I wouldn't him, I couldn't hurt him.

No, No, No , No.

But I started to go crazy.

It was like I was there, but I wasn't there. It was me, but not me.

It must have been real bad, because she was a real tough chick, nuts, but made of steel, and she looked scared of me. Scared of what I'd do to her, what I'd do to the kid.

I did that to her. This woman who don't take no shit from anyone, she's looks at me and pleads for mercy, for help.

Oh, Goddamnit!

All I remember is her screaming. I remember her chasing me. I remember running through the hallway of her apartment. I don't remember anything else.

I woke up in a brothel. I wanted to head to her apartment and apologize.

She was gone; her mama told me she didn't want to see me again. Anna took the kiddo and went to live with her cousin, "but I no go, I did bad thing." I asked her if Anna and the kid were okay. She said yes, that Anna was okay and that the baby was okay.

And I shake her, is she sure that Anna and the baby are okay?

And she's scared of me. Ya know? I mean, this little old lady is terrified of me. And I'm shaking her, askin' her if I hurt my kid last night.

And it's funny, you know, I'm so messed up; I'm shaking this elderly lady, begging her to tell me that I didn't hurt my kid or her daughter.

But she's just looking at me with steely eyes, I get where Anna gets her fortitude from.

Because I don't remember what I did. I don't remember at all.

It's all black in my head.

She tells me that me that I didn't touch my kid.

For the first time, I feel relief.

But she doesn't tell me about Anna.

And I feel like I'm gonna vomit.

Because I don't want to hurt Anna either.

"Is Anna okay, I didn't hurt Anna did I?" And I'm practically screamin' at her. Begging her to tell me that I didn't hurt this woman that I don't even like. But this woman who had a baby, my baby.

She looks at me and she says, "you scare and hurt. You broken."

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but I was too afraid.

"You no good," she tells me. And you know what? She's right. I am no good. I am a destroyer. Everything I touch gets destroyed.

I gave her mama all the money I had on me, which was a measly $3.00. Which didn't make up for what I did, but it was all I had. I went home. I tried to send letters and money to her mother through a buddy of mine who was still in country. And it worked, for a while.

Anna gets the money and I even get updates on my little boy. He looks like me. I remember that, my buddy told me that my little boy looks so much like me.

But he's not like me. He's good. Anna loves him.

Anna hates me though, and I don't blame her. As long as she loves the kid.

And she does. That's the one thing that brings me comfort. She loved him.

I try to love him from afar with everything I got, but I'm so messed up, I don't have much love for anyone; not my brothers, not my son, not myself.

I don't miss anything, except for the war. I miss my war.

And I'm glad I'm not in his life. After all of these months of worrying about him, of wishing I could see him; I'm so glad that he's growing up without me.

Because he deserves so much more than what I can give him.

So I had these two families my brothers at home, my kid in Saigon; no make that three families, my brothers in arms, they're my third family. So I have these three families and none of them know about the other.

I compartmentalize my life, my mind, my heart.

But my buddy lost track of Anna and Anna's mom.

The letters stop.

So, now I have no fucking idea what happened to them. It's all my fault. And it destroys me. I lost my kid for a second time. Except I don't have any clue if he's alive or dead or what happened to me.

Do you get me?

My kid could be dead and I wouldn't even know it.

She took my kid and left because of something that I did. I just have no idea what that was.

I went home, I never told my brothers about my chick or my baby.

What the hell am I supposed to say to them? "Hey, guys, I knocked up this chick in Vietnam, she had my baby and I apparently lost my shit one night with them. She was so scared she left, I have no idea where they are or what happened to them. Could be dead, could be alive, pass the salt, will 'ya?"

Yeah, so the worst thing I did in Vietnam had nothin' to do with takin' lives. The worst thing I did was create life.

And that night I was with my brother, the night I hurt this kid brother of mine that I love so much, my mind was floating back to the night with Anna and my son. And like they say, night is when the monsters come out, and that night once more, the monster was me.

* * *

It was the first time I told anyone about me, about the fact that I have kid, that I abandoned my kid and that I love war more than anyone. Her mouth is kind and sympathetic. She says all the right things, "well, you tried your best for your kid. Lots of guys probably wouldn't even want to see their kid. You tried to bring them to America. It's her fault for leaving and not telling you where they were going. It's not your fault the letters stopped all of a sudden."

But her eyes, her eyes say something completely different. "You fucked up monster." How do I know? Because it's the same thing my eyes tell me everything I look at myself in the mirror.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**

 **Thank you so much for all reviews and reading, especially to guest reviewers whom I can't personally thanks. I appreciate it all.**

 **I'm experimenting with different timelines, narratives, styles with this story. Thank you for taking the journey with me!**

 **And yes, I will go back and go into the scenes that Soda talks about with more details and from different POVs.**


	13. Hands

_**Posting two chapters tonight, because, well, I got two chapters done, and I can't get to sleep. ;)**_

 **We're now back in Vietnam.**

* * *

 **May/June 1967-Vietnam**

"I hate him."

I look at Phil his face is contorted in rage and cheeks are red. I haven't ever seen him mad and it's strange, like seeing snowfall in July or something.

His hands shake.

"Cooper. I hate him. I hate him. I HATE HIM! The way he treats those dead bodies, it's sick, Curtis. It's sick!" He grits his teeth at me, although I know that his anger is directed at Cooper.

I nod. Cooper's fetish for dead body parts is creepy as hell, but I still kind of like the guy. I mean, I've never seen him mistreat anyone while they're alive, just when they're dead.

"We're not here to mess with the dead Soda, it's sick, he's sick and we're all sick for not doing anything to stop it!"

Phil takes heaping gasps of breath and for a moment it feels like the entire planet is pushing him to the ground. I hold onto him and he grabs my shoulder and breaks down.

His sob is uncontrollable and part of me hope no one sees him breaking down like this. Tears, snot and drool slop together and part of me wants to look away.

If it was one of my brothers or Two-Bit or Steve I wouldn't mind, but even Phil, though I like the kid a lot; this crying makes me a bit uncomfortable.

I mean this place just oozes testosterone and Phil's crying is like a needle popping a balloon of toughness I've built up around myself.

I want to turn away, to tell him to man up, to tease him.

But I can't.

He's my buddy and he needs me. I ain't trying to sound all full of hot air, but I don't let my buddies down. Whether it's Darry needing a sounding board, Pony needing someone to help with his nightmares or Johnny needing someone to hold him after those Socs beat the crap out of him.

I can't look away. I may not be smart, oh hell, I'm pretty fuckin' stupid; but I can give my buddies one thing-myself.

So here we are two soldiers. Two guys who have seen people be killed and who have killed people. But we hug each other. And I hold him.

My hands grip onto him.

"Easy buddy, easy, Phil. It's okay, man, it's okay." I keep my voice soft and gentle as I possibly can. But deep down inside, I know I'm lying.

His heart is beating so fast that for a second I'm afraid he's gonna have a heart attack, I guess after what happened with Chavez has made me plenty paranoid.

Phil is right. What Cooper does is sick. The fact that we tolerate it is sicker. The fact that I've gotten use to Coop's bloody collection is sickest of all.

Two months I've been here. Two months and things that would have caused me to vomit in shame I'm able to look pass without feeling anything but emptiness.

My hands shake and my fingers curl up into trigger fingers.

And before I know it, he's holding me up.

* * *

Phil coulda run away to Canada after he was drafted. His parents are strongly against the war and he lives pretty close to the border. But he couldn't do it. He told me that if he didn't go some other kid would take his place.

"I would feel so much guilt Soda, almost more guilt than anything that could happen over here. So here I am."

I put my hands behind the back of my head and stare at the ceiling. And I think Phil is the bravest guy here.

Phil is the only one that I'm honest with here. He's the only one I told about my dream. My dream I had that if I go to Vietnam I could save Pony from dying. I'm sitting on my bunk, kicking my feet against the base, something I do when I'm nervous and excited alike.

My fingers are making fast paced typing motions against my thighs, something that drives my brother Darry up the wall.

"Real weird, huh Philly?" I start chuckling and I don't know if I'm chuckling because what I'm saying makes no sense or because it makes perfect sense.

But Phil looks directly at me and his stare don't get me the way Pony's does, but for the briefest of seconds I see my kid brother in those green eyes of his.

And it's nice, it' real nice. I miss my brothers.

He shakes his head. "It's not weird at all Curtis. I get it, I really do. It reminds me of when I was younger and I prayed that God would take my fingers and give my dad my fingers. I wanted God to exchange my hands for my father's hands; and you want to exchange your life for your brother's life. Believe it or not, I really do understand."

"You know," I say slowly, "if something happened to Ponyboy I wouldn't know how to deal. I ain't saying that I would off myself or something, but I love him Phil."

I'm talking, but it ain't me talking. It's some deep part inside of me that is spilling all of these secrets like oil. I can't stop it.

I'm waiting for Phil to tell me that Pony is going to be fine. That this war will be over and that he won't be drafted, and that if I am killed here Pony won't have to go.

I need him to reassure me. It's odd, ever since we met in Boot Camp, I felt this need to look after and protect Philip, but now I need him.

And I don't know how or why, but if he tells me that Pony is gonna be okay, I'd believe him.

Instead he just nods. "I know, I know."

My fingers stop shaking.

* * *

"Soda?"

"Yeah, man?"

"I didn't tell you the full truth. I didn't run away to Canada because I didn't want my neighbors talking about my folks behind my back. I couldn't stand all of the Kiwanis dads and Masons and my teachers all talking about how Philip and Sarah Mihailovich raised a coward. I couldn't do that to them. I didn't want people to think I'm a coward. That's why I'm here Soda. I'm here because I'm too afraid to have people think I'm a coward.

I rather die than have people think I'm a coward."

I look up at the blank darkness, "ya know, I still think you're real brave, Philly."

Just then a yell breaks into the room, "shut the fuck up you two! Go suck each other's dicks when the rest of us ain't tryin' to get some shut eye!"

"Fuck you Parker!" We yell in perfect unison in the exact same tone.

And man, it tickles me. Just a few weeks ago Phil woulda been scared shitless of Parker, not anymore. I'm real proud of him.

I shoot Parker a double middle finger.

* * *

 **(One week later)**

 _Darry,_

 _Before I start this letter, I gotta ask you a favor. If you can't say yes, please just throw this letter away. Okay, here goes. You probably noticed, oh, hell; I know you noticed; that I sent this letter to your work and not home._

 _Pretty sneeky, huh?_

 _Truth is, I don't want Pony to see this letter. I feel so slimey keeping a secret from him. But for his sake, I can't tell him. I love him so much. I love you too man, but all my life you've been the strong, solid one in my life. It ain't fair; but I trust you._

 _Please forgive me._

 _Before I go on, thanks for the letter and the pic of Pony. DAM! That brother of are's is something else! Can't believe he's 6'0 tall. Watch out, he's gonna be taller than you in a few years. He's a good lookin' kid, that's for sure._

 _Guess he ain't like me, huh? Well, we already knew that based on his grades & brain. Ha Ha!_

 _Man, I don't envy you having to deal with a teenager. Oh yeah, tell him if he's gonna screw his chick, to wear a damn condom. You too man. Hope you and Gretchen are still doin' good. Say hi to her for me. Okay?_

 _It's funny even though I have the picture of Pony, I still can't picture him in my mind the way he looks now._

 _When I think of you, and Two-Bit and Steve, I imagine you exactly like you look when I left back in April. Not Pony. Whenever I think of our kid brother I see him as a thirteen year old kid._

 _Remember Darry?_

 _It was only two years ago. But it was a lifetime ago! He was a little runt of a kid back then, the smallest kid in his class and the youngest. I know you remember. And he wore my hand-me-downs which made him look so small._

 _And the tougher he tried to act, the younger he got. I mean, Pony's a tough little SOB when he wants to be; but I see that kid with my navy sweatshirt and ol' wheat jeans on and man, he's a little boy._

 _Remember how I use to bug you back then not to treat Pony as such a little kid? "Come on Darry, let him stay out later." I would remind you of all the things we got to do as thirteen year olds and you would say, "yeah, but Pony ain't us."_

 _Man, did I blow a gasket at you! I thought you were insulting Pony. But, now I know you weren't. You understood are brother better than I did._

 _He is different from us, and thank GOD for that! Ha, Ha, just joking._

 _But now it's me who can't see our 6'0 brother as anything but a little kid. Every time I picture him in my head; I see the little kid with the big eyes, innocent face and voice that ain't changed yet._

 _In my mind, he's always this 13 year old kid. He's still the kid who has nightmares and climbs into bed with me. He still the buddy that I looked after from the day he was born, like you did with both of us._

 _Again, don't tell him nothing about this letter. I know it bugs him when you treat him like a little kid, he's gonna flip a roof if he knows that I think the same thing._

 _And I can't destroy that kid's innocence. Because if I do, I'll destroy myself._

 _So in my head I keep him young and innocent and I'm going to tell you my secret._

 _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry._

I stop writing and look at my hands. Hands that have killed, but they're still the same hands, still the same fingers as earlier. They don't look any different, but they feel different. They feel foreign. They feel like they're not mine. And I ain't tripping or nothing, although believe me, I wish I was.

For a moment I hope that my fingers fall off, that they get crushed, or blown up, or float away. I think about Phil's dad, and hell, I'd change my life for Phil's dad's life in an instance.

It's funny you know, I spent all of this time thinkin' about ol' poor Mr. Mihailovich and his seven missing fingers.

"Man, that's gotta be awful, to lose your fingers like that!"

But who's living a nightmare now?

It's the one and only Sodapop Curtis; because if God was merciful to me, would have taken away my fingers before they became tools of death.

And I think back to what my kid brother told me a few months ago when I add the crazy notion that I could save him by fighting in a war, "What, this little deal you've made with God, did you get in writing? Cuz if you didn't, I think He's likely to screw you over. We ain't exactly his favorite people, you know."

You were so right Pony, you have no idea buddy, you're so fucking right.

And my hands shake once more. And I can't continue to write.

But I see it, I've seen what I've done.

It's in my head. And it plays. On. An. Endless. Loop.

I tighten my fists.

I put the letter down and look at it. My handwriting is atrocious. I mean, just fucked up like you wouldn't believe it, looks like a drunk wrote it.

I fold my hands into a prayerful gesture. And it's obscene, so obscene for me to seek forgiveness. So messed up for me fold the same hands which killed someone into a gesture of prayer.

So, I unfold my hands.

And look down at the scar from my trigger finger.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns,**

 **Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reviews and reads. :)**


	14. The Diner

**This chapter, from Soda's POV takes from where "The Worst Thing I Did" leaves off. Some close to "M" sex stuff in this chapter; but hopefully not "M."**

* * *

 **California, 1969**

I make a run for the toilet and sit my ass on the throne just in time shit out "Norma's Patty Melt."

And man, am I glad that I went for the patty melt and not "Uncle Chet's Famous Chili."

I have no fuckin' clue who Norma and Uncle Chet are. Our waitress was named Constance. Not Connie, Constance. First thing that came to my mind was how much extra dough they had to spend to get Constance printed on the name tag and not Connie.

I channel my inner Darry at the most random moments.

Constance was on the wrong side of 40, wore heavy blue eye shadow and was approximately 20 months pregnant.

I see her tryin' to carry a full tray of food to our table, and I run up and try to give her a hand. "Sit down, let me take it, I got it." I give her a grin and offer to carry her tray for the rest of her shift.

It pissed me off to no end. Where the hell was Uncle Chet when you needed him? Or a busboy? I mean this woman looked like she was gonna pop right over the day old Danish and no one offered her a hand.

She didn't take me up on my offer.

"Ain't you a doll, but I got it baby." She's giving me a look and I can't tell if she wants to fuck me right on the table or give me a plate of warm cookies and milk.

I kinda have that effect on women, even middle aged pregnant ones.

Truthfully, I offered to help for two reasons. One, I might be colossal fuck up, but the lessons of good manners my parents installed in the three of us are still with me and it's wrong to make a pregnant lady do heavy liftin' like that. Two, I was sorta hoping that if I helped her she would convince her boss to give us the meal for free. Or, at least throw in a bunch of day ol' Danish in a doggie bag for us.

"That was nice of you," my travel buddy, who's name is Mary, told me.

I shrugged, "don't seem right that they have her on her feet all day in this place."

Without missing a beat Mary said, "Uncle Chet probably did it."

And for the first time in a long time I laugh.

* * *

I return from the crapper about 30 lbs lighter.

Mary is still sitting at the booth, staring at the window at something.

I'm kinda surprised to see her, I half expected her to hightail it out of there. Wouldn't blame her in the least. The way she was lookin' at me when I was telling her about Anna she looked plenty disgusted at me.

Instead she looks up at me, "what's your baby's name? You never told me your little boy's name."

In spite of my best efforts I feel my lips curling up into an involuntary smile, "Patrick" I whispered.

She gives me a slight smile, "that's a strong name."

* * *

My mind goes back to Vietnam. Anna just had the baby and I'm callin' them to see how they're doing. It took me a week to get in touch with her. War puts a damper on communication.

She told me she had a baby boy and I felt my heart fall into my gut and then bounce back up again.

Her voice is full of pride, "8 lbs, huge baby, real healthy" and I can FEEL her grin and her happiness.

"You did good," I tell her.

There's a pause on the other side of the receiver, and Anna doesn't get a lot of compliments for things outside the bedroom, so she probably doesn't know what to say, but she tells me, "thank you" in a strange voice.

And I realize why it sounds so strange, she's _happy._

"What's his name?" I'm gripping onto the receiver, lookin' at the switchboard in the telephone room light up. Orange, green and red lights fill my vision.

And for the first time ever I hear her voice become vulnerable and it cracks slightly. "Patrick."

And in that moment, though I can't see her, I feel something for her beyond lust, obligation and dislike. Maybe I even love her.

She's a mother. My son's mama.

 _My son._

 _HOLY SHIT, I have a kid._

"That's my name," I say softly, "my middle name is Patrick."

My eyes start to water, a bit, thinking about my baby with my name being welcomed into the world.

Anna's voice grows hard and I can hear her practically spit into the receiver, "I didn't name him after you!" She then goes onto mutter, "Shit, always so full of yourself, Goddammit." Oh yeah, Anna swore better than most soldiers.

The happiness I felt a few minutes ago of finding out about my son and the love, or at least care I felt for Anna goes out the window.

"Well no shit girlie!"

And just like that we're at each other's throats again.

She tells me, once again, that she hates the fact that I'm Patrick's dad.

I tell her that I ain't exactly braggin' about having a baby with a crazy whore.

I ain't proud of that. Don't get me wrong, it was true, but it was a low blow. I shouldn't call any woman a whore. It's not nice.

She tells me that the next time she sees me she's gonna cut off my dick. "Gonna save girls from your limpy dick."

I hear Patrick cry in the background.

Welcome to the world Paddy boy!

* * *

I shiver. Tryin' to get the memories of Patrick out of my mind.

I've already told Mary so much about me, I might as well continue.

I don't want her to think I'm a good guy.

"Anna. She worked at a bar in Saigon until she gave birth. She danced on the table-naked. She sucked dicks for money."

I didn't want her to do it, but she wouldn't listen to me.

"Your sperm gets lucky one time and you think you own me!" She screamed at me.

Anna was even more popular with guys after she became visibly pregnant.

Or as Anna said, "I take off my dress and show them my belly and they go crazy and they dicks stick up. Shit, I knew this I would have gotten big a long time ago."

"She was givin' a guy a blow job when she went into labor, but she still continued." I tell Mary.

Mary doesn't say anything, so I continue, "and I knew about it. I knew about her workin' at a bar, having sex and performin' blow jobs for the entire male population of Saigon. You know how I know? I bought my buddies to her."

Mary looks disgusted.

Good, good, good. Cause it is disgusting.

But in my defense, we needed the money and Anna woulda done it anyways, better she sucks the dicks of people I know rather than a bunch of strangers. Plus, I knew my buddies wouldn't be too rough with her.

But it was still wrong.

"But, I like it rough," she tells me. "Rough and hard," these guys you bring over so soft & weak, "Call me 'miss', half of them just want to talk to me. Kiss me. On lips. Shit. I hate talking. I just want to fuck." She would glare at me, "I hate being pregnant."

I shrug, "we coulda taken care of it months ago. Ain't my fault."

Heck, I understood where she was comin' from. Until I met Anna, I didn't know that it was possible for a woman to do _that_ to me. We both had scars from the night we conceived Patrick. Maybe I'm old fashion, but it just seemed wrong that she still wanted to all of that when she was pregnant.

But I smiled when she told me that my guys didn't want to touch her.

They're good guys.

I trusted them.

But I can't have had Mary think I'm a good guy.

Cause I ain't.

Not anymore.

I don't tell Mary about how Anna would attack my buddies in bed, tryin' to get them to hit her. That was one of her turn ons.

I didn't tell her that Anna would lie down on a bed, put finely grounded up smack on her belly and her breasts and have guys snort it off her.

That was all her idea. "guys go crazy."

She was right. She was real smart. I mean, like Darry smart. Hell, she kinda reminded me a bit of Darry in that way, cept Darry's a good guy. She earned enough money to buy an apartment for herself and her mother in a nice area of Saigon. She had a good mind for business. And she did give _great_ head.

I don't want her to think badly of Anna either.

She is my kid's mama.

Or, maybe was.

* * *

We leave the diner, both looking at Constance tryin' to balance a platter of chillis.

I give Mary a hug and kiss her forehead. It felt kinda good.

I tell her thanks for the meal again.

"That rootbeer float, man, that was tasty" I lick my lips.

I say goodbye.

* * *

I figure Mary wouldn't want anything more with me. Hell, if she was smart she would get the hell out of dodge.

Instead she follows me to the bench.

"You mind more company?"

I'm surprised.

"Um, no darlin', you sure?"

She looks at me, her eyes are dark brown-almost black and they kinda remind me of Johnny's eyes.

"Yeah, I like listening to your stories. I don't like travelin' on my own."

Her voice is a monotone.

Her eyes look real soft though, open and giving.

And I hate myself for tellin' her about Anna and the blow jobs, about Anna _period_ , because I want her to like me. And it's hard to like a guy like me.

Ain't that a bitch? Ten minutes ago I wanted her to hate me, now I want her to like me.

She curls up next to me and leans against my chest.

"I'm real sorry about your baby," her voice is low, "I bet you woulda made a real good daddy."

Glory! She must be more junked up than I am. Although she don't look like the type of chick would do hard drugs. Wine and maybe some grass. _Maybe._

"How you figure?" I ain't fishin' for compliments, I genuinely want to know; because inviting guys to give my lady blow jobs while she's pregnant and then freakin' out on them during the only time I saw my kiddo don't exactly scream 'father of the year' to me.

She sighs and plays with her silver cross necklace. "Well, I dunno; but the way you talked about him you had so much love in your eyes. I know you would do anything to see your baby boy again."

And I cry. Real tears. Fuck. But, I don't care.

My sobs rack against my chest, and my crying is messy. My shoulders drop and they shake uncontrollably and I'm not use to this. Not anymore.

My crying is loud and people are looking at us. Some asshole starts laughing. But I don't care.

Because I have a son and I don't even know if he's alive or dead.

She doesn't look embarrassed at all, she just gives me a hug.

She's the first person I told about Patrick too.

And she's still with me.

Maybe I ain't that bad of a guy.

Her eyes are like magnets.

* * *

A few minutes later...

"Do you got any smack?"

My body does a jolt. Holy shit. So much for my guess that this chica don't do any hard drugs. Man, and I use to be so good at readin' people.

I look at her and I recognize that look in her eyes, that hunger.

That need. That want. It's a look both helpless and dangerous.

She's a junkie.

She probably don't even like me, just wants my stash.

But that's okay. I've taken so much from my buddies, my brothers, everyone; that I'm happy to give her what I have.

And right now smack and stories are the only thing I have to offer her.

"Yeah, baby, I do."

And she smiles and I smile at her.

But I ain't thinking about her, and she probably ain't thinking about me.

We're thinking about getting high.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.**


	15. TAP

**Back in Vietnam with our guy, Soda. Warning: this chapter deals with racism, a racial slur/derogatory term is used by a Sargent, and we have a beloved character (Mr. C) who says stuff that makes me cringe, and I obviously disagree with him. Also, we're using period appropriate terminology. That being said, I don't want to shy away from dealing with this topic, even in a rudimentary/ watered down form.**

* * *

 _ **Vietnam, 1967**_

War ain't always all bombs and bullets. There are the quiet times, the times when I'm with my guys in The Can-Can Club and the only thing we're shootin' is the breeze. It's those times, despite the sounds of the sirens and roar of the medevac helicopter outside the club' dank window, that I almost forget I'm in motherfuckin' Vietnam.

'Course, the beer don't hurt either.

A few weeks after Phil and I visited the Club for the first time, I returned on my own. Wasn't really in the mood for screwing, or even drinking, just wanted to be in a place where I didn't have to think about war. The Can-Can club, with its bar girls in their short little red, white and blue mini-skirts (believe me, those left nothing to the imagination, which is good, cause I don't have much of an imagination to begin with) was as good as a place as any.

I'm watching a girl with these mile long legs and long, thick black hair that falls down to her ass and cascades off her head into waves. If the other girls skirts don't leave nothing to the imagination, I can practically see her entire world peaking underneath the short piece of gold cloth she passes off as a skirt.

I don't get a chance to look at her face though, because a deep, male voice cuts into my horny-ass brain.

"Mind if I join you, Curtis?"

I look up and see Thomas Allen Payne, aka, Tap, his meaty paws grippin' the side of the table.

It's a statement, and not a question, and though I'm in one of those rare moods where I don't really need the company, I pull the wooden chair next to me back, "be my guest, man."

Tap is a big guy, 'bout 6'3 and the only guy who could give Darry a run for his money in the muscles department. Unlike my brother, he got a head too small for his body and a nasty-ass scar across his forehead, looks like a lightning bolt.

Tap is one of the few Negroes in my unit. There are two guys from Detroit, Lenny and Bolton, some guy nicknamed Mook from Philadelphia, and another guy from New York City, who is half Puerto Rican, named Williamson.

Willamson was real light-skinned, but he kept on trying to grow his hair out into an Afro, which I guess is sorta the in-look nowadays.

And every time, his hair got too pat the regulated length, the Sarge made him see the barber.  
"Don't see why I have to get _my_ hair cut, look at Southern Fried Curtis over there, he's lettin' his hair grow out and no one says shit," he mummers under his breath.

He points at me, and man, I ain't really in the mood for this. Don't know why he's bringing me into this ruckus, I'm just trying to mind my own damn business.

He glared at me, like it's my fault.

But I don't make the rules. Sides the Army must have a reason, right?

The Sargent, this potbellied man by the name of Johnson, got right in Williamson's face and wagging his finger, told him that he "wasn't having no pickaninny in his army," and Williamson looked like he wanted to take a swing at Sargent Johnson, but instead called him a white ass cracker.

That got Williamson written up for insubordination and one day in the dank tank. When he got out, he had a red mark under his eye, and a shaved head.

The whole thing made me feel uncomfortable. I mean, I didn't really think about it before, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought it wasn't right that I could grow my hair out but Williamson couldn't.

And the more I tried to justify the Army's treatment of Williamson in my own head, the more I was comin' up empty.

Every two weeks they make Williamson visit the barber and get his hair cut, so one day I decide that I'm gonna join him and get my hair cut real short too.

But it wasn't because I wanted to right a wrong, it was because I wanted Williamson to like me. I wanted him to see that I was a pretty cool guy for a 'honky ass.' I figured, I get my hair cut, like him, and he would have to like me, maybe even feel a bit grateful to me that I was sacrificing my hair for the cause.

Yeah, I can be kinda self-absorbed. Least I know it, though.

"Guess we're gonna be twins, huh, Williamson?" I gave him a 'can you believe this shit' grin. But Williamson didn't laugh.

"You were given a choice Curtis, I wasn't," he looked dead ahead at the mirror, his voice hard and though quiet, almost a whisper, I can feel the weight of his anger.

I looked down at my dark blonde hair on the barber's floor.

Tap, though, he's from Alabama. Has a real deep voice and a slow as molasses accent.

"I sure hope Tap doesn't ever need to call in a radio for backup, the war would be over by the time he says 'roger' I told Neal one day.

I don't know why Tap wants to sit next to me. Sometimes there are some tensions between the races in my unit, not nearly as bad as some units though. But, I don't get involved in that shit. I mean, I don't know anything about civil rights or the Black Tigers, or Panthers, or whatever they're called, but it seemed pretty dumb to be fightin' amongst each other when we got a bigger enemy to face.

Besides, if a guy don't have a problem with me, I don't have a problem with him. Don't matter to me what his color is.

Tap don't get involved in the fights either. I think he doesn't fit in with the black guys as much as he doesn't fit in with the white guys.

I wonder how that makes him feel, and if that's why he wants to sit with me.

But if it does bothers him, he doesn't let it show. He has this confidence and this "you better respect me" quality that reminds me of my big brother. That he doesn't really fit in with either the white guys or the black guys just makes him more determined to make his own way in the world.

I guess that's why I like him. He's a fighter.

Over a watered down, warm beer, I found out that he we had the same birthdate and he got a woman back home, named Nanette. She gave birth to a baby girl named Barbara right before Tap got shipped out.

He showed me a picture of them, Nanette had her hair permed and the baby was wrapped up in blanket so tight, her face disappeared.

"You got a girl, Curtis?"

I think about Sandy and man, I ain't really in the mood to be thinking about her. So, I shrug, "had one, we broke up, 'bout a year ago, been seeing some girls off and on back in Tulsa, but ain't really in the mood to settle down."

He eyes the photo with a thoughtful expression, "my daughter was born one week before I left."

I let out a low whistle, "that's tough, man." It was hard enough saying goodbye to my brothers, knowing that maybe I wouldn't be coming back; I couldn't imagine leaving behind my newborn daughter and not know if I would ever see her again.

Tap looks down at his boots for a few seconds, watching a bug tryin' to climb over his lace, but then he looks at me.

"Yeah, ain't nothin' I can do about it, all I can do is pray to the Lord that He sees it fit to send me back home to them."

I have no idea how Tap can be so damn calm, but when he talks about God, it ain't just for show. He means it. More than that, it actually seems to help him.

Over some peanuts and stale crackers I find out Tap is planning on enrolling in college when he gets back in country.

Me, well the only way I'm going to college is as a lab experiment.

But that night, I also found out that despite being a religious guy he ain't no 'holy than thou' stick in the mud.

We exchange the beer for whiskey. Tap insists, I shrug and go along, although hard liquor ain't really my bag. Hell, I'm pretty indifferent to drinking in general.

It's soon real obvious that I'm a novice, cause while Tap is on his 4th or 5th shot, I'm still trying to digest my second.

 _Damn, how the hell could Dal stand this crap?_

"Okie, I've seen Church ladies drown more hooch than you." For the first time, he grins at me and I'm glad I can help him temporarily take his mind off Nanette and Barbara.

I'm about to give him the finger, in a friendly gesture, when I notice a poker card hidden is his sleeve.

"Fucking A, you're cheating!"

And I swear to you, we both say this at the exact same time, because while I'm eying the AWOL card poking out of his sleeve, he's looking me trying to shift one foot over the other, so he doesn't seem the card I hid in my sock.

There's a real tension for about five seconds and I don't know if we're gonna start going after each other or burst out laughing.

I'm ready either way though. My shoulders tense up and my fists tighten. Tap moves on guard, and while I ain't no slouch when it comes to fighting, you better believe I wish Darry was with me. We could take on Tap no problem.

But I shake that thought outta my head, gonna have to get used to not depending on Darry for everything. Besides, while Tap got muscles, and height, and muscles (oh, did I say that?) on me; I can turn into a wild man when I fight.

But something happens, instead of taking a swing, or guarding against one, I burst out into laughter and after a pause, Tap starts laughing too. Before you know it, the sound of our rollicking laughter drowns out the sound of a guy standing on the stage trying to sing "I Want to Hold Your Hand."

Which is good, because he kinda sucked.

"I guess we do have something in common, huh, Okie?"

"Yeah, I never woulda guessed a man of God to cheat at cards. Wheredja learn?" I'm genuinely interested, and impressed.

Tap smirks, "What the Lord chose not to provide, Lou's Bar will." Tap goes on, "where did you learn your tricks of the trade? I know not at a bar, not after seeing you wuss out…"

"Nope, it was at a bar. Called Buck's, used to go there with one of my buddies." Thoughts of Dally, Two-Bit, Steve, Johnny and my brothers flood my mind, and I take a swig of the whiskey and feel the hot, burning sensation stumble down my throat.

"Hmm, probably some nasty ass redneck bar."

I think about it for a moment and let out a big chuckle, "yeah, you got that right, the guy who ran it, name's Buck, he dug Hank Williams almost as much as you dig your whiskey," I say with a wink. It's funny, few minutes ago we were about to beat the crap out each other, now I'm jokin' around with him like we're best buddies.

Tap laughs before his face becomes somber, "Listen, I just want you to know that the only reason I, um, got creative with my playing style, was because we weren't playing for money or anything." He looks at me real earnest, "I wouldn't cheat you. I just wanted to see if I still had it."

I can read people and I know that Tap is on the level.

The two of us continue into the night, talking (mostly me) and drinking (mostly him).

When they close shop for the night, and the manager finally kicks us out, I stand up and shake his hand, "you know, you're gonna see your baby girl again, I just know it."

He shakes his head, "I hope you're right, Curtis."

And then I say something I wouldn't imagine saying before I got here, "I'm gonna pray for you."

I mean it too, Pony is the one with faith, but if praying will help Tap, I'm gonna give it a go. I sure hope God still recognizes my voice. Maybe I'll see if Pony would pray for Tap and his family, God would probably listen to Pony before me.

Tap is the first black guy I've really gotten a chance to know and just talkin' to him, I'm rethinking my own thoughts and beliefs. Truth is, before I met Tap and Williamson, I never gave much thought to the shit Negroes faced at home. But, I guess that was kinda the problem.

Darry, he used to know some Negroes through playing football at the "Y", it was the only place in town that was integrated.

 _I remember one night when he was in high school; I was in junior high and Pony still in elementary school. Over a dinner of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and lima beans he was gushing bout these two guys he met a through the YMCA named George and Frankie._

 _"They're real good, George especially. Man, I don't think I've ever seen anyone throw a spiral like George. He's almost as good as me."_

 _Mom gave my Dad a small smirk, if Darry says that someone is 'almost as good as me,' that really means that they're probably better. I love my brother to death, and truthfully, he usually is the best at almost anything he tries; but let's just say he don't exactly suffer from a lack of confidence._

 _"It just ain't fair that they can't join Will Rogers and play for us." Nobody said anything, and Darry slammed his hand lightly on top of the table. "Why wouldn't we want to have the best guys helping us out? We could go to State if we had George and Frankie on our team." He was talking to us, but I could tell he was trying to digest the situation for himself._

 _Darry always had a real keen sense of right and wrong and fairness and unfairness. When we played football, he always made sure the teams were divided up evenly, and he would go out of his way to make sure Johnny had a chance to take the ball, even though Johnny couldn't play worth shit._

 _He was no big civil rights guy, but he always believed in being fair to everyone, and not giving George and Frankie the chance to play football for Will Rogers was to my brother, not fair to them or to us._

 _My dad shrugged and gave Darry a grin, "I don't know son, but they're probably happy over at Booker T. Washington. Besides, I don't understand why their fathers would want to subject them to the harassment those poor colored kids in Little Rock faced with that mob of hoodlums."_

 _Mom winced, "Darrel, are you really trying to blame those poor children and their folks for the way that mob behaved?"_

 _Mom grew up in a Quaker home and both her parents were strong supporters of civil rights. Her best friend growing up was a black girl named Annie. But even if she didn't know any blacks personally, I think my mom would have been real keen on civil rights, she always was real independent in her thinking._

 _Dad gritted his teeth, he's usually pretty easy going, but when he gets called out on something he can get defensive._

 _"Of course not Jo, stop putting words into my mouth that don't belong there. I'm just sayin' that the people who harass Negroes for sport and burn crosses, they're trash, okay? I agree with you. Pure trash. But, you ain't gonna change them. It's wrong what they did, but maybe it wasn't the smartest thing for those parents to put their kids out there in that situation where they had to face that mob."_

 _In a chipper voice, Mom said with a tight smile, "well, I guess we're just going to agree to disagree. But Darrel, if those were our children facing a mob yelling the most hateful things at them, you would be singing at entirely different tune."_

 _My dad doesn't say anything, but looking at his face, I know my mom is right, and my dad realizes it._

 _I looked at my brothers, Darry is looking down at his plate, and though he doesn't say anything, the way he smashes up his lima beans when dad is talking, I know he doesn't agree with my dad._

 _"Dad…" Darry begins, but shakes his head, and continues to eat. Though he don't say anything, I know how much Darry worships dad and how difficult it is for him to even digest the fact that he might not agree with our dad about everything._

 _Pony is staring wide-eyed at our parents and I wished my parents wouldn't talk about stuff like this in front of such a little kid._

 _Most of all, I just hate hearing my parents fight. I wanna put my hands to my ears, but I ain't a little kid like Pony. Truthfully, I don't know who's right, I love them both and they both make sense to me. "Please," I say quietly, "can we just eat? I don't want to talk about this stuff no more."_

 _Dad shoots me a big grin and he begins talking about some prank he pulled on one of the guys at work, I laugh, then Pony laughs, then Darry and finally Mom. Her laughter the final break we need on the tension that fills up our dining room._

 _That night, Pony asked me why the black kids couldn't go to school with us. I shrugged, "I guess it's like Dad said, they're probably happier with their own schools."_

 _Pony shook his head, "I still don't think it's right, Soda. If someone beats up a kid just because he's a Negro, that's wrong," Pony says in a self-assured voice._

 _"Course it is Pony…"_

 _"I would make sure that if there were Negroes in my school no white trash could hurt 'em," Pony crosses his arms defiantly._

 _"That's real good Pone," and I know my brother means what he says and I'm proud of him for being so protective towards others. He learned that from our dad._

 _"Soda," Pony said quietly, "I still don't get why they can't go to school with us."_

 _I didn't know what to say or think, so I looked up at our ceiling, hoping my brother don't ask me any more questions that I couldn't answer._

 _But, Pony wouldn't be Pony if he didn't question things or people. "Soda, do you think mom is right or dad is right?"_

 _I take a deep sigh, "I dunno Pony, maybe they're both right? Besides, you think too much kiddo, you should be more like me, I don't think at all!"_

 _I flash him a full teeth grin and the next thing you know, the two of us are wrestling and laughing and he's yelping out for mercy while I tickle him to death._

 _I don't have all the answers, I don't know if the black kids would be happier with us or with their own schools, but at least I can look after my little brother. That's one thing I know for sure._

* * *

 _ **Oklahoma, 1956**_

I'm five and Soda is seven. Darry is home sick with the chicken pox, "ain't he a bit old to be catchin' the chicken pox at his age? We should submit him into the Guinness Book of World Records, could make a fortune off of him," Dad says to Mom with a wink.

Miserable, and itching, Darry was stuck at home, with our mother playing nursemaid to him.

With Darry sick, Soda and I have Dad all to ourselves. He's taking us down to Muskogee to visit Mr. Stead, who was Dad's sorta adopted father. We're also going to see a cowboy movie play in the Matinee theater. Soda and I both have on our cowboy hats, black for Soda, brown for me.

"You two are the cutest cowboys," mom grinned at us when were ready to leave.

"Mom, were supposed to be tough cowboys, not cute," Soda said.

"Yeah," I chip in, "we ain't cute, we're real bad guys, ain't that right, Soda?" Soda nods and puts his arm around me, and mom bites her lip to keep from laughing.

In the car, Soda has his window rolled all the way down and he leans out of the window and shouts 'yahoo' and 'yippee,' the wind blowing his hair in every direction.

"Practicin' so when we get to the stables," Soda explains to us, as he leans out the window again.

But, truthfully, my brother just can't sit still and being in the backseat of a stuffy car is torture for him.

I swear, he reminds me so much of a newborn pup that is just itching to jump out of its crate.

We're just about to drive into town when we see a black couple on the side of the road, with their headlights blinking. The man in overalls, is trying to fix a busted tire, while the woman, in a grey dress, is standing uneasily against the side of the car.

"Better help them," my dad says as he pulls up behind him.

Soda groans, "but I don't wanna be late to the movies." My dad catches Soda's eyes, "stop your whining, you see someone in trouble, you help 'em."

Soda just nods sullenly, "yes, sir" and when dad looks at me, I say in an even louder voice, 'yes, sir!"

As Dad walks towards the couple, "you folks could use a helpin' hand?" The man puts his arm around his wife's shoulder, a gesture of protection.

I don't get it though, why would this couple be afraid of my dad?

When Dad moves to shake the man's hand, I can see the man relax a bit, although his arm his still wrapped around his wife's shoulder.

Dad is helping the man change the tire, and telling them all about us, "yeah, I got two of my cowboys with me, my oldest boy, Darrel, Jr., he's home with the chicken pox…" Before you know it, Dad is telling this couple his entire life story. That was the thing about my dad, you say hello to him, and next thing you know he's not only told you all about his gallbladder operation, he's showing off the scar.

"We're missing the movie, Pony! It's supposed to be real neato, with lots of shootin' and everything."

Soda spins himself around in a circle, I don't see how he does that and doesn't throw up or at least fall down.

Of course, Soda's spinning is making me see stars, and I go over to my dad.

The woman is fishing through her change purse, a look of anxiety on her face. She pulls out a crumpled dollar bill, "please, sir, for your trouble."

My dad just grins, "ain't no trouble at all, ma'am."

The woman looked dumbtruck. Back then, I thought it was because my dad wouldn't take the dollar. I was five, I knew that a dollar was a fortune, heck you have any idea how much candy you could buy for a dollar?

I was pulling on my dad's shirt, hoping he'd reconsidered. Heck, I really wanted some candy.

But dad just said goodbye to the couple and shouted at Soda to get back in the car, "come on dizzy boy, let's get a move on!"

Years later, I realized the reason the woman looked so shocked was because my dad was probably the first white man who called her ma'am.

* * *

 **A/N: The story about Williamson being forced to cut his afro is based on actual experience of African-American soldiers in Vietnam.**

 **Thank you, thank you, thank you to EVERYONE who has read, followed, liked, reviewed this story; your support means the world to me.**

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**


	16. Mail

**Okay, sorta transitional chapter. I'm going back to the guys at home. This is one of those wordy expository chapters without much plot, but will hopefully help me get back into the groove of writing Darry & Pony again, even though they don't interact much in this chapter. I do plan on going back to Darry & Pony (and Steve & Two-Bit) more, and try different plots and forms of narrations with them. So this chapter is a sort pre-cursor to that.**

 **Thanks for indulging me!**

* * *

 _ **Tulsa, 1967**_

The mail comes between 3:15 and 3:25 on Saturdays. I know this because by 3:12, Ponyboy is standing on our front porch. My brother, he fidgets. Not, like Soda; Soda no matter what his mood is, can't sit or stand still to save his life. He's a walking, talking perpetual motion machine.

But, Pony, when he's nervous he will bite down on his fingernails, tap his fingers against the sides of his legs and fiddle around with his cigarettes. That's another thing, when Pony is in his normal mood, he takes long, slow drags; when he's nervous he takes short, quick puffs that inevitably end in coughing fits.

"Dar,"( _cough),_ "what time is it?" Pony chokes out.

"3:27, you wanna come in Pony and get some water, you're sounding awful out there." I call out from the living room. The door is ajar open, Dad's old 'trusty, one of kind' doorstop (a rock) propping it open.

The T.V. is playing, but not on full blast like it usually is. There really isn't anything good on Saturday afternoons, just kiddie crap and some old cowboy films which only make my heart sink for my dad and brother.

"No. You ( _cough_ ) reckon the mailman ( _cough_ ) is on his way? "

I roll my eyes, he's only two minutes late and Pony already has the mailman turned over in a ditch or something.

"Pone, my telling you to get some water was a demand, not an invitation. It don't matter if the mailman comes if you're gonna choke to death on our front porch."

A year ago, Pony would have rolled his eyes or sulked at me, or, gone to Soda for comfort and validation; but, now he just rolls his eyes and gives it right back to me, "hey, at least I'd make a pretty corpse."

"Shit," I stand in our doorway, "we all know I'm the best lookin' Curtis," I flash him a grin.

Pony, his coughing fit over and his cigarette butt on the porch, (I'm gonna have to talk to him about that, we don't get many visits from the Welfare people anymore, but until Pony is 18 I'm still gonna be looking over my shoulder); tries to, unsuccessfully, cock his eyebrow.

"Sheeet," he says in a perfect mimic of Dad and Soda's Southern drawl, "even Stevie Wonder ain't gonna fall for that load of crap."

The next thing I know I'm chasing him off the porch, he has a head start on me and flashes me a cocky grin as he leaps over the chained-link fence. I try to do a flying somersault, but only end up landing on my ass with a thud. I haven't done any gymnastics since that night of the rumble, and it shows.

"You alright, Dar?" Pony looks genuinely concerned, as he stops in the middle of run, and looks back at me spread out on our yard. It hurts, but mostly, I'm embarrassed. Gonna have to see if they got a refresher course at the Y I can take this summer.

"Meant to do that," I smirked.

The white mail truck turns the corner, and Pony, starts to make a mad dash for it when he slows down. His gait becomes cool, relaxed and he shifts from side to side with, despite his strong build, an almost cat-like swagger.

My brother, he has on a simple t-shirt and a pair of Soda's old jeans on. His sneakers, have a bit of a hole in the ankle, and I groan, didn't I just buy him those shoes five months ago? How the hell does he get a hole in the ankle?

His shoulders are pulled back and relaxed, his chin is up, but he don't look haughty or stuck up. Truthfully, Pony is too nice of a kid to ever look like a snob.

It's then that I see Pony through the eyes of a stranger: he's tough, he's cool, he's fifteen going on sixteen and ain't no one or nothing that can take him down.

In that moment, Tim Shepard, Dally Winston ain't got nothing on my kid brother. Hell, when I was fifteen I don't think I could ever look that self-possessed as Pony does in this moment.

Just watching my brother, I'm burstin' with pride and maybe a bit of worry. Soda is already gone, and I ain't ready to let go of Pony either.

I know he's almost sixteen, not a kid anymore, not in this neighborhood, not with Soda out there fighting for his life in jungles; but he's always gonna be my kid brother.

I don't have to worry about letting go of Pony just yet, because when the mail truck continues down the street, Pony rushes towards me, ever bit the track star, a huge grin on his face, "we got mail."

He holds up a thick envelope like it's a baton. The other pieces of mail bunched up in his other hand.

Once again, my brother's swagger is replaced by an almost bouncy energy. His eyes grow large with excitement and anticipation.

I know the mail is letters from Soda. Soda's been real good about writing to us, which surprised me. Soda's good at a lot of things, keeping a schedule and writing letters, ain't amongst them. I was surprised that Soda has been so good at keeping us up to date with what's going on. Not just Pony and me, but Steve and Two-Bit too.

I can't believe this is the same kid brother that bitched up a storm when Mom made him write simple 'thank you' letters as a kid.

I can tell right away if Soda has written to us. If he hasn't, Pony looks dejected and will oscillate between grumbling and asking me to assure him that Soda is okay.

No matter what I say, I just can't seem to comfort or assure him. So I let him spew his worries out. Besides nothing I do or say can convince him that Soda's not dead, torn to pieces. I don't tell him this of course, but it's hard to try to assure Pony when inside I'm a fucking nervous wreck myself.

But, if Soda has written to us, my brother looks like he just received a letter signed, sealed and delivered from the Almighty Himself.

And given the way Pony idolizes his brother, given the way Pony hero worships Soda, that's a pretty apt analogy.

I can't help but grin when I see Pony. For one, my brother has gone through way too much shit in his fifteen years, Soda leaving for 'Nam, although I know Soda only did it with us in mind, was the cherry on top of the shit Sundae. Seeing Pony grin, if only for a few minutes makes my day.

I don't think I've ever seen Pony grin the way he does when Soda's letters come in the mail.

A small blade of envy cuts me. Soda is thousands of miles away, but it's Soda and only Soda, who can put that look of joy on Pony's face.

I shake that thought out of my head. Why can't I just be happy for once? Why do I need to see the dark side in everything?

Plus, those letters from Soda? Yeah, they make my day. Fuck, they're like manna from heaven for me. Ain't nothing like a letter from my kid brother to make me feel, despite all he's facing, reassured, that he's coming back to us.

* * *

Darry and I, we got a ritual when it comes to receiving letters from Soda. Soda will write us each a separate letter, but put them in the same envelope. The army doesn't charge him anything for postage, but I guess it's easier for him to put everything is one envelope than two separate ones.

With the mail spread out on the table, I do a quick glance to see if any of the bills have a red 'overdue' notice on them. Force of habit. We've been doing pretty good with the bills lately, I got a summer job over at the A&P. But the memories of those early months of seeing Darry try to hide overdue bills under his suddenly useless college application essays and brochures and hearing Soda and Darry talk in low whispers when they thought I was asleep.

 _I am thirteen, it's been a month since Mom and Dad have died and the three of us are stumbling into our new roles as orphans._

 _It's weird, even now, using that word and knowing that it applies to you._

 _The funeral is over, the funeral food is long gone, the visits from the neighbors have, thankfully, stopped._

 _But the three of us, were still playing a fucked up twisted game of blindman's bluff, not quite knowing who we are anymore in relationship to each other._

 _On paper, Darry is our guardian. But in those first few months I can't see him as anything but my brother. I don't want to see him as anything other than my brother, because if he is our guardian that means that I have to accept that my parents are dead._

 _And I sure ain't ready for that._

 _I hate the way he hoovers over me at the breakfast table. If you think your dad is intimidating, try having the 'greatest quarterback since Lenny Brown, class of 1947' breathe down your neck. He orders me to eat more protein, "shoot Pony, you lose any more weight, they're gonna think I'm starvin' you."_

 _His tone is clipped and short. Like he thinks I'm doing this on purpose, that I don't want to eat his crappy, extra dry scrambled eggs because I WANT to go into a boy's home._

 _I stuffed the eggs in my mouth, "you happy now, Darry?" I say with a mouth full of scrambled eggs._

 _He slams his fist on the table, "Grow up, Pony. Stop acting like a damn six year old."_

" _Ain't my fault you can't cook, besides your eggs are always dry. You ever heard of a thing called milk?" Usually, I just let him yell at me, but I'm not in the mood today._

 _Soda, dark circles under his ever bright eyes just shrugs good naturedly, "well, I see we're all in real good moods. Remember what Mom said, you start the day off bad, it's just going to go downhill from there? Pony, I'll make you some scrambled eggs, hope you like 'em blue this morning."_

 _Darry shakes his head, "Soda, don't go…"_

" _Aww, come on Darry, he gotta get his protein from somewhere, right? Besides, I like cookin'."_

 _Soda lets out a light chuckle, but he knows exactly what he's doing. Nothing like bringing up Mom and Dad to make me feel guilty over the way I'm acting._

" _Sorry," I mumble to Darry as I clean up pieces of scrambled eggs on the table. He was right, I was acting like a 'damn six year old.'_

 _Not that I would give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was right._

 _Soda pats my back and goes back to adding more sugar to his corn flakes._

 _Darry nods, a chagrined expression on his face._

 _He takes a bit of his egg, "You know what, Pony, these_ _ **are**_ _pretty dry."_

…

 _I don't know what gets me out of my bed that night. Maybe I just want a drink of water? Maybe I have to take a piss?_

 _But whatever it is, I stop, just outside my door. I can see into our living room._

 _Darry is rubbing his temples, sitting in what used to be our dad's armchair, leaning forward, his body half on the chair, half leaning over the edge._

 _He shouldn't be there, I think. He shouldn't be sitting in Dad's chair. Even though he lounged plenty of times in Dad's chair before, we all have, all I can think now is, 'he shouldn't be sitting in Dad's chair.'_

 _Who the hell does he think he is?! Yeah, we know you're our guardian, you don't need to lord it over us._

 _He sure as hell ain't Dad. He could wear Dad's cologne and Dad's belts and Dad's shoes, but he wasn't ever gonna be Dad._

 _I cross my arms and glare at Darry._

 _Soda is sitting crossed legged on the floor, naked except for his boxers, a pile of bills at his feet._

 _Even though Darry is twenty and Soda is just sixteen, even though Darry is leaning over Soda, I could tell that Darry respected what Soda had to say, and Soda was never afraid to speak his piece._

 _They talk to one another, both leaning towards each other._

 _I'm torn. I sure don't want to know about all the problems we're having. I know things have been tight after the funerals, and I don't want to know just how bad things are._

 _My fingernails are already bitten to the quick as it is._

 _I feel bad enough for all the money Darry had to pay for my doctor's visit. Never mind all the money he must spend on groceries._

 _At the same time, seeing the two of them share a moment like that, I want to be with them. Not because I'm envious of their bond, okay, maybe a little; but because they're my brothers and before Mom and Dad died we shared in everything together._

 _Now, it's like Darry & Soda are in their separate world, the world of bills and adult responsibility, yeah, but also the world of deep friendship and trust born out of struggle. I'm the kid. The one they look after, the one they protect, but the one who is not part of their world. _

_I don't want that. I don't want a guardian in Darry and a sort-of guardian in Soda; I want my brothers back. I want to be part of their world, even while part of me knows I wouldn't be able to handle it._

 _Most of all, I want my parents back._

 _They talked in low whispers, with Soda occasionally waving his hand down, trying to get Darry to lower the volume. Darry would speak in whispers for the next few words, then he'd be back at full volume. Thanks to a keen sense of hearing and Darry forgetting to lower his voice, I made pretty good sense of what the conversation was about._

 _The phrases, "we're fucked, Soda," "no money," "I can't do this shit," "turn off on Monday, unless we have the money by then," and "hey man, we'll work it out, the two of us, we **got** this," the last phrase from Soda, still echo in my mind._

 _On rare occasion, their late night talks erupted into arguments or fights. You wanna hear something funny? Two real tough guys trying to duke it out with each other and keep it quiet at the same time._

 _Those fights, rare as they were, scared me. If Darry and Soda fought with each other, where did that leave me? Screwed._

 _But the strange thing was, after their fights, they seemed closer than ever. Their fights were good way for them to get the tension out and they both cared too much about each other to really hurt one another._

 _Their real fighting giving way to mock fighting and gentle teasing._

 _Soda would tease Darry and Darry would put Soda's head in a mock headlock and they would end up laughing on the floor._

" _sshh," Darry would say between hiccup laughs, "we gotta be quiet Soda, can't wake Pony up."_

 _Too late._

 _Later in the week, Soda would call Darry a 'pussy' in a good natured tone, Darry would crack up, like it was the funniest thing he heard all week. I figure Darry, the human grizzly bear, would kill me if I ever called him that._

 _But Soda, could get away with murder._

 _Most of the time, the two of them just talked into the early morning hours. Soda's voice soothing and Darry's voice strong. Their voices and their tones balancing each other out. I would hear Darry chuckle, soft and low, and a bit unsure, but a chuckle none the less._

 _In the first month, only Soda could get Darry to laugh._

 _I would wander back into bed. When Soda plopped down next to me, I would ask him if everything was okay._

 _I could hear the tension and hesitation in Soda's voice. I know now that Darry made Soda promise not to tell me just how, to use his elegant phrasing, fucked, we were. Soda would never break a promise to Darry, but he also would never lie to me._

 _Soda is diplomatic, but he always tells thing as they are, he doesn't lie to me._

 _He would swing his arm around me, "things aren't great Pony, but we'll be okay, you ain't got nothing to worry about."_

 _Of course, that set me off into full panic mode._

" _They gonna take us to a boys home?" I could hear the knock on the door, the police coming late at night, dragging me out of bed. Maybe, they would tie up Darry, or worse, to prevent him from rescuing me._

 _I shivered with panic._

 _Soda, would tighten his grip, "nah, Pony, they ain't gonna send us to a boys home."_

" _How do you know?"_

 _In a self-assured voice that managed to be both soothing and commanding at the same time, "because, Darry would never let that happen to you. He would do anything to protect you. He loves ya, kiddo. 'Sides, Pony, I just know. I wouldn't lie to you."_

 _And those words were all I needed. I believed Soda. I believed in Soda. I didn't quite trust that Darry loved me like Soda said, but I trusted in Soda._

 _Looking back what stands out to me was as much as I believed in Soda, Soda believed in Darry. Soda knew that Darry wouldn't let me go to a boy's home. He just knew._

But now the guy who always assured me, not by being blindly optimistic, but by telling me that things are gonna be okay, in SPITE of the shit around us, was carrying an M-16, a grenade launcher and images and memories in his mind that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

But, he still wrote to us.

He included a picture of himself. He had on a goofy grin and crazy expression. I thought he looked a bit wasted, not because of his expression, my brother knows how to ham it for the camera, but his eyes looked a bit bloodshot.

I shook that thought out of my head. Funny thing, I could sorta picture Soda carrying a damn machine gun, but I couldn't picture my brother drinking.

A sort of funny feeling fills my lungs. It doesn't make much sense, everyone in this neighborhood drinks and if there's any place where you expect a guy to enjoy a cold one ever now and then, it's Vietnam. But still, I couldn't help but feel that picture was a sort of harbinger of something far worse.

In that picture, his hair was long.

If Darry noticed the glazed expression in Soda's eyes, he didn't say anything. Instead, Darry snorted and then chuckled, "man, look at his hair, shit, who woulda thought our brother would go full hippie in the army?"

I rolled my eyes, if Darry thought that was 'full hippie' I hate for him to see Cathy's brother M&M or half the kids in my school; he'd probably go on a psychedelic trip just looking at the brown paisley shirt M&M wears.

Hell, I felt like I was on one of those LSD trips just looking at M&M myself. Not that I would do that, take LSD, I mean. M&M did that a few months ago, and he's still a bit messed up.

That kind of stuff scares me.

Soda doesn't look like a hippie at all, he just looked like Soda. I was glad to see him with the long hair; short hair, I thought, never suited my brother.

On the back he wrote 'before.'

The next photo was my brother sitting next to a large black man with a solemn smile. Soda isn't a tiny guy, but compared to that guy, my brother looked small. The guy, according to the back of the photo was named "Tap" and he could, according to Soda, outdrink Two-Bit any day of the week. Unlike my brother, Tap looked serious and somber, but I could see a slight twinkle in his eyes. A whole bunch of shot glasses lined up on the table Tap and Soda were sitting at.

In that picture Soda hair was short again, "after," he wrote.

I digested the pictures.

Integration is still moving sort of slowly at my school. There are about a dozen black kids in my grade, but given that we have a class of over 2,000 kids, that ain't sayin' much.

One of them, her name is Phillipa, is in my homeroom. She's nice, doesn't talk much, but she always passing out pieces of gum.

When I told her my name was Ponyboy, she just smiled, "wow, your dad must have had a real knack for creativity." She was one of the few people who didn't act like my dad named my Ho Chi Minh or something like that when I first introduced myself. She reminded me a bit of Cherry Valance in that way.

But the real surprise was the shot glasses. I felt relieved that most of them probably belonged to Tap. But still, there were an awful lot of shot glasses on that table…

Soda had his million dollar grin on his face and I want to burst out in tears or laughter. Because that's my brother, he's in the Army, he's at war, but he's still Soda. I feel guilty for even worrying about my brother.

For even questioning him. Besides, he does want to drink once in a while, who the hell am I to judge?

Darry, the fashion expert, looked at the second picture, 'he looks better with short hair,' he said decisively.

Darry hands me my letter and he takes his, we each go into our rooms and in the privacy of our bedrooms engage in a kinda silent communion of sorts with Soda.

We both close the doors behind us.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Ugh. Hope that wasn't too bad. Like I said, I'm getting back into writing Darry & Pony, and I'm still struggling over what to do with them. **

**In the book Pony said that Darry never yelled at Soda, but I can't imagine that two of them never got into any fights.**

 **Thanks for reviews, reads and everything. :)**


	17. The Elephant

_**Okay, not going to lie, this is a weird chapter. It's a story of Soda and an elephant. The first part is rather straightforward narration from Soda, the second part is Soda's version (via Pony) through Pony's story about Soda, "My Brother's War" (The chapter Irish and the Can-Can Club has some background info on the article Pony wrote.) The third installment is when we get trippy. It's Soda, completely high in a stream of conscious conversation with Mary, telling her the same story he told earlier, while not in his best frame of mind. It's hard to understand, it's emotional, it's surreal, it's a bit confusing, it's Soda.**_

* * *

 _ **Vietnam**_

It's Cooper who spots the elephant.

Chavez puts the elephant in his sights. With one fell swoop, Cooper yanks him up. "Don't you fuckin' dare man. Don't shoot that elephant."

Its sorta weird that a guy who has no problems cutting up people would be so defensive of an elephant.

Chavez shakes his head, "It's just an elephant, why you so defensive?"

Out of earshot of Cooper, Parker mummers, "it reminds him of his old lady."

Cooper though just says, "because it's a majestic animal."

"See, what did I say," Parker mummers under his breath.

So, we just stare looking at the elephant. I mean, it ain't like I've never seen an elephant before. But seeing one out in the open is a lot different from seeing one in the zoo.

I can't wait to tell the folk back home. They send me a lot of letters, and I feel kinda guilty, because my letters aren't nearly as long or as interesting.

I do try to send pictures though.

I like talking to people, but when I have to write something down, my mind just goes blank.

Which is probably why I failed English.

The elephant doesn't seem to notice that we're just watching her, she moves her trunk up and down and back and forth. She lets out trumpet like sound. She stops, looks around, shits, and continues walking towards us.

I turn to Amundsen, "well, I guess we're all present and accounted for."

* * *

 _ **Tulsa**_

 **My Brother's War**

 _ **by P.M. Curtis**_

Vietnam, the protestations of our allies in the upper echelons of the government of South Vietnam notwithstanding, is a majority Buddhist country.

Before traveling to Vietnam, Soda had never heard of Buddhism. But Phil Mihailovich was an expert.

Elephants play an important part of Buddhist iconography Phil explained to Soda.

"When your mind is going all over the place, when you can focus or think, that's the grey elephant. When your mind is under control and calm, that's the white elephant."

Soda nodded, but his mind was floating away to other topics, "guess, I'm a grey elephant type of guy," he mused to himself.

Phil continued, his voice fast and tipsy with excitement. "Get this Okie, I mean, Curtis; when the Buddha's mother was pregnant with him, she dreamt about this white elephant, and from the elephant's trunk she drew a white lotus flower. The elephant walked around her three times and entered her womb."

Soda chuckled and Phil asked my brother, "what's so funny?" In a slightly annoyed tone.

"Man, Philly! You sure his mama was tripping? That story is pretty crazy. An elephant climbing in her womb?"

Soda winked at Phil, "you're not tripping on me, are you?"

Phil turned defensive, "no, I'm not, and this story is no crazier than the stuff they taught us in church, virgin births?"

Yeah, but at least the part about the virgin birth was true, Soda thought.

Soda ruffled Phil's hair, he didn't want to offend the kid, he seemed so damn sincere. "It's a really neat story Phil, my brother, Ponyboy, he would love to hear that kind of stuff."

Back in our living room, I rolled my eyes, "no, I wouldn't Soda."

Soda only smiled, "I was just being polite, Pony."

Patrols in Vietnam can be boring, frightening or exhilarating. All depending on what happens along the way. But mostly, at least, according to my brother, they're boring and exhausting.

"Man alive, Pony, I walked so much in Vietnam I coulda traveled to the moon." Sitting in our living room, he pretends his hand are striking a drum, "and back."

One day that stood out to him was the day he saw an elephant while on patrol.

As my brother tells it, there was no great reveal, no dramatic or emotional moment. They were on patrol and a large Asian elephant came right into their sights. One of the guys wanted to shoot it, afraid that the elephant might be a Vietcong war elephant, but he was talked down.

Even in Vietnam, the elephants could be your enemy.

If the elephant was scared, she didn't show it. Instead, she continued to walk towards them. Not in a gesture of aggression, or even curiosity. Soda thought that she almost looked like she was in a daze. Her walk, was, almost graceful.

Mike Chavez, the guy who wanted to shoot the elephant in the first place, cocked his gun and kept on muttering, 'motherfucka, motherfucka.'

"Pipe down," Soda told him, "she ain't gonna hurt you. Just stay calm. Besides, when else are you going to say that you saw an elephant?"

"In the zoo," Amundsen retorted.

Soda laughed. He liked people with a sense of humor.

The elephant walks toward them, and Soda felt amazed at seeing such a large creature up close and in the wild.

"There was something free about her, you know? I mean, there's a damn war going on, and she just does her thing, her way. And here we were, these tough kids, 18, 19, 20 years old, with blood on our shirts and on our minds, but we are held captive by this elephant. But, if she knew the hold she had on us, she doesn't show it. There's something just awe inspiring you know? To not be beholden to anyone, to be free. To do what you want to do, when you want to do it, consequences be damned."

The elephant takes a crap.

The elephant continues to walk towards the guys and Soda moves towards her. He said that he wasn't afraid, more curious. He'd never seen an elephant up close.

He wanted to touch her.

"I just thought it would be kinda interesting."

To Soda's surprise the elephant gets down and allows Soda to climb her back.

"I swear, Curtis, if Charlie sees you, I'm gonna bash your head in," Parker snarls.

But Soda just looks around, and what a view!

Sitting on top of the elephant he gained a new, 9 foot perspective of the land. On patrol, Soda became very familiar with ground, with the earth his body slammed against as he prepared to take a shot at an enemy soldier.

But up here all he could see was the hues of dark and light green leaves, the rice paddies and the bits of open lands surrounded by a semi-tamed jungle.

For a brief second, he thought about riding off on the elephant and into the jungle.

But instead the elephant, maybe sensing his desire, gently slides him off.

Cooper tries to ride her next, but she's not having it. She gets up.

Soda felt a slight bit of boastful pride that only he was able to ride the elephant.

She lets out a large trumpet and for a minute, Soda is afraid that her cry is going to unleash hundreds of Vietcong on him. But the wooded forests of the Mekong Delta held nothing but the call of wild birds.

It was then, Soda said, that the elephant, with a dozen of fresh faced soldiers looking at her, took a giant dump.

Soda is positive that she looked at him with a smirk, a look that said, "you're not so impressive, hot shot"

She turned from side to side, and walked back into the green.

She was still the most beautiful thing Soda had ever seen in Vietnam.

* * *

 _ **A bathroom in California.**_

Long days feeling nothing, holding onto something empty. Open You. It's coming. Here comes Charlie. He wants you!

I fucking hate war movies. Fucking hate em. John Wayne.

 **This is a story about war and love and love of war and war of love and a bunch of other shit that I don't really know about.** Really, you ought to ask Pony or Darry what's going on, they're the smart ones. It's a story that has no beginning and no ending. It ain't even got a point or a moral. It's a story that don't mean nothing to anyone, including me. But here goes.

I'm sorry.

I hate apologizing it makes me feel so weak inside like I'm just hovering, begging for mercy. I hate apologizing even more when I don't mean it, when I don't feel it. I feel like such a phony such a fraud. I apologize a lot.

I'm sorry, Mary. I'm sorry, Pony. I'm sorry, Darry. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad.

Oh, get this.

One day out on patrol in 'Nam, I saw an elephant.

Yeah, really an elephant. It ain't like at the zoo, it was in this little ol' rice paddy field. I named it Big Ass. I'm real creative like that.

Anyone who sees me knows it.

I see the elephant take a shit. Shit.

Oh well. Anyway, the elephant making all of this noise with her trunk you know trumpets blaring and all and Chavez asks if we should kill it on account of it sounding all half crazy and shit.

Asshole says no.

What?

Oh, yeah, Asshole is my nickname for Cooper. I love that guy. He's my brother.

Says if Chavez kills the elephant he fucking kill Chavez.

Asshole was wearing a necklace of Vietcong teeth. True story.

We don't kill the elephant, but we watch it.

I mean it's a fucking elephant and we're bored and some of us are high on weed and some of us are itching to kill it and some of us are just watching feeling and saying nothing.

It don't look at us but I know it sees us feels our presence.

I can taste the mouth of blood burn in like a taste of Champaign.

I look and imagine the elephant crushing us to death.

Crash Crush Crash. Shit.

Irish gives a low whistle. His real name is Phil, you know.

I don't know why he whistles. I think he just wants to make conversation but he's so shy he don't say nothing.

Pretty cool huh, I say.

He nods.

We stop waiting and looking and continue on our way home. To base. So not really to home, but maybe in a year we will be going home.

The elephant can still feel our presence you know what I mean chica?

It's freaky I mean just so weird and funky. I mean she don't look at us none but I know she can feel our presence because she trumpets so loud and makes a wailing sound like she ain't never gonna sound her trumpet again, so she might as well get the shit over with now.

That's how it comes.

That's how it goes I don't know what to say.

She's a big elephant. I mean all elephants are big, but what I'm saying is that she is not some little skinny mofo. She is up there. Just shitting and blowing her horn with the rest of us watching.

I want to take a shit.

Don't think. This is how it's gonna be.

My name is Sodapop Curtis.

I'm 18 and I'm in a war zone.

The elephant, she lets me climb her and ride her for a few minutes. It's freaky.

I get off.

I want to chop off her legs and make a table out of them. You think Darry would like that huh? A table a table made out of an elephant? Darry is really good at making things. I just make a mess.

 **But don't worry I clean up after myself.**

It don't mean nothing.

Hey,Mary-Mary quite contrary, you wanna hear a joke?

Aw, I'm sorry I don't got no jokes to tell. But Pony probably do. That kid is great. He's great. I want to be just like him. He's smart. But kinda stupid in some ways. Don't tell him that.

Oh yeah, you two you never met. Right? Hmmm. Yeah.

I love him a lot.

Chocolate in Vietnam tastes like shit but that's okay the entire country looks and smells like shit.

Except at dawn it's so pretty there.

 **Real pretty. Pink clouds, yellow skies, purple smoke.**

The chocolate they gave us I rub between my hands.

It's so dry it don't melt against my fingers even though every other part of me is covered in sweat. The chocolate are special chocolates they are supposed to stay dry even if you rub them between a girl's pussy in the jungle. That's what Parker said.

He's an asshole. But I love him too. I love everyone. Except the damn VC and Anna. She had my baby you know.

But I take a piece of chocolate and it don't taste like chocolate it just goes on and on.

Steve Randle is my best friend

When we were little kids we stole some chocolate. We didn't get caught and I didn't feel guilty. I'm sorry. Maybe that's some sign, a sign that there is something wrong with me.

I don't think sometimes but I feel all the time.

I am so here with you do you know what I mean.

Okay, my grandpa Dale Curtis, was a sonovabitch. Yup, he was a big guy real big guy. I wish I was bigger.

But then I see some big guy like the guy in our unit, Tap is his name. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap is what they play when you die. Or Taps. Or SPAT. Get it! You go SPAT and they play TAPS!

That joke ain't mine that's Luke. He's here. With me. In the war. Oh man this is so weird.

My pants are itching. I mean really really itching. You know what that means. I got mosquitoes and jungle. And jungle and mosquitoes.

What? Oh, that's just acid.

Oh, cool. Yeah, I'm trying to enjoy it.

Relax?

Okay. I'll try.

 **I don't got nothing at all. But my gun.**

 **I love my gun my gun loves me.**

( _sings_ ) I don't know much about history. Don't know much philosophy.

Okay so what is a typical day like? **How should I know there is nothing typical about Vietnam. It's the same every day, and different every second.**

It's like every day you're watching a scene in reverse and you don't feel nothing but you know what's going to you happen next.

Okay, does that make sense.

My favorite movies are one with lots of girls. And Action.

Pony loves films, he likes everyone. I love that kid. Even when he annoys me.

Wake up I tell him, wake up wake up wakey wakey. He don't get up. I don't know what to do oh well.

Darrel is my dad and brother's name did you know that? Darrel is his name-o.

I wanted to hug my son and bring him closer to me. I tried to feel love, **but I don't know who I am.**

Do you know why I am who I am, do you know my kid?

Patrick is so cute. So darlin' A darlin' little baby. He's my boy. But that sorta sucks for him don't it? I mean having a dad like me. I wish I could take it back and give him to someone else.

I wish I could stuff him back up Anna.

I'm trying to remember old he is now. I don't remember. He's a baby though.

 **He's beautiful, but I'm not able to describe it.**

 **Who am I?**

Okay well this is going so well. She's Anna. She's Van, yeah this don't make no sense Okay. Okay Okay. Oh well.

The blankets are warm and brown so that's nice it reminds me of my parents' couch. I don't know why, it ain't even the same shade of brown.

My name is Sodapop Curtis I am 18 years old. I'm fighting in Vietnam. I have trouble spelling. That ain't important but that's who I am. I have two brothers. I have a son. I abandoned my kid. I'm addicted to heroin. I don't forgive myself. Maybe I should write about all the things I've done that I didn't forgive myself for.

* * *

Mary looks at Soda and rolls her eyes, "you talk too much baby. I ain't never heard anyone talk so much when they're this high."

Soda looks at her, her teeth are gold, he thinks. Or, maybe pink, like Vietnam.

He flips her off. Not in a mean gesture, more of a joke. He thinks.

He's high. But not on drugs. He's high on Vietnam.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **And yes, I know I'm taking Soda down a dark and sort of weird path, but it does get better for him. My story The Visit shows Soda in 1978 he's still dealing with some of his demons, but he's in a WHOLE lot better place. (Nothing like pimping out your own story! ).**

 **The lyrics Soda quotes are from "What A Wonderful World" by the incomparable late Sam Cooke.**

 **As always your indulgence, feedback, reads, reviews, likes, favorites means more to me than I can express. Thanks for taking this journey with Soda and me.**

 **P.S. I hope to go back to our guys back in Tulsa to give another view on what's going on with the gang while Soda is in Vietnam, soon. Maybe even the next chapter. :)**


	18. Of Beards and Two-Bit

_**While Soda deals with wildness of Vietnam, we're back in Tulsa.**_

* * *

I catch a glimpse of my reflection through the drugstore window, from a certain angle , my two day stubble can pass for a pretty decent set of whiskers. I can grow out a far out beard, or I _could have_ grow out a far out beard, if Darry would let me.

" _You're not wearing a freakin' beard, not when you have college recruitment meetings going on."_

" _Darry, in case you haven't noticed it, everyone wears a beard now a days. Hell, half the guys in my school have beards. Lighten up."_

 _Darry shoots me a look that can be translated to 'lose the attitude or be prepared for a world of hurt.'_

 _Instead, he sighs impatiently. "Pony, when you get accepted into college, wear a beard, grow your hair down to your ass, hell, wear a mumu with a little plastic ukulele for all I care, but until then ,I want you to look like you stepped out of a Junior Achievement Brochure."_

 _I roll my eyes, "gonna need a new pair of shoes," I point to my sneakers with the ever expanding hole in the ankle. "Can't meet with recruitment officials wearing these."_

 _Darry huffs off and goes into kitchen to fix supper. I can hear him aggressively washing his hands. Yeah, my brother is the only person who can wash his hands with the same determination, passion and hard ass attitude he brings to every other aspect of his life._

 _The next week, I find a pair of real nice, and way too expensive, dress shoes on my desk._

 _These must have cost a fortune, I think to myself as I rub the smooth black leather against my fingers. It's imitation leather, but it still looks and feel like the real thing. Either way, it's far above our pay grade._

 _I find Darry in the living room, "man, you shouldn't have done this. These are too expensive, we can't aff…"_

 _But Darry just cuts me off, "you deserve them Pony. Besides, your sneakers are crap."_

 _I smile at him, "thanks, Darry."_

 _Darry just shrugs his shoulder, and bats his hand away in a 'no big deal' gesture. But I know. I know how much these shoes must have cost him._

" _Besides," Darry continues in a sardonic voice, "now, I reckon I have you in my debt for at least another year," he shoots me a smirk._

 _I roll my eyes, "yeah, right."_

 _But what I really want to say is "I owe you more than just a year, and not just because of the shoes."_

 _It's funny, now I have a pair of shoes that would of designated me a 'Soc' two years ago, while many of the guys that we used to call Socs wear homemade flip flops kept together with hemp string._

* * *

I turn the corner, someone grabs me from behind. I try to move my arms, but this other person is no weakling and they have me in a firm grasp. I start to panic, trying to remember if I have my switch on me. I haven't been jumped since that time when I walked home from the movies by lonesome. Back when Johnny and Dally were still alive and Soda was still with us and not half a world away.

I didn't consider what that character did at the dance to be a proper jumping.

That doesn't mean that I can get away with not carrying a blade. But now it's from random assholes and Brumly Boys rejects who like to start something with a fellow just because he can. That's another thing that changed. Now without the Socs to unite us East side boys, we've turned against each other.

Things were a bit rough when I went back to school after Bob's death. Bob was a real popular guy, although I got the funny feeling that most of Bob's friends were more upset that a 'greaser' killed Bob, and not that Bob was dead. But with Bob's friends graduating that year and the whole peace and love thing going on, I had it pretty easy as school.

Heck, I was sort of popular, even though I wasn't sure how. I still don't talk much.

I try to move my legs, hoping to kick the guy in the family jewels. Just as I try to get lose, I hear a deep voice, "boy, if your brothers saw you squirimin' like a common hippie…"

 _Two-Bit._

He lets me goes and starts laughing.

"Damn it Two-Bit!" I add a bunch of creative adjectives that would have earned me a perfect SAT score if four letter words were on the test.

Two-Bit just crosses his arms and _tsk tsk_ , "and to think your mother and I were happy when you first learned to talk."

I'm still pissed, Two-Bit, he doesn't know his own strength, and my ribs were smarting something awful.

"I ain't in the mood for this Two-Bit." I glare at him.

He starts to grin, but then his expression turns anxious. He looks a bit like Curly Shepard did when he fell off that telephone pole.

"Hey Pone, everything is okay, I mean, ain't nothing wrong with So.."

I cut him off. I feel guilty for worrying him and a bit embarrassed if my reaction to his rough-housing was so over the top he thought that something must have happened to Soda.

"No, Soda's fine, I'm just a bit jumpy." I reply sheepishly, while rubbing my left side.

He takes a deep sigh of relief, "good kiddo. Hey, how about you hang out with your favorite greaser?"

I shrug, "sure, where's Curly?"

He playfully slapped my back, and if you don't think that hurt like a mother…

He takes me to Ray's Diner. His treat. It's the same place that Soda and Two-Bit ate at when Soda joined the army. Our waitress, Donna, used to date Two-Bit for a little bit. But, if she has hard feelings towards Two-Bit it's hard to tell, she's friendly and professional to both of us.

"So, Ponykid, what's been going on with you? I haven't seen you around lately." Two-Bit stirs his straw in his coke and there's a note of regret in his voice.

I cringe. Two-Bit is right, between Cathy and my schoolwork and guys like Terry Jones and them all, I've been sort of making myself scarce.

I felt guilty, I liked Terry and B.J. and Hays a lot, but they weren't my buddies the way Steve and Two-Bit were.

"I'm sorry Two-Bit, I've just been real busy…" The truth of the matter is that without Soda it doesn't seem right to hang out with Two-Bit and Steve. It was hard enough after our gang was decimated two years ago. Now with Soda gone and maybe gone forever (NO! get that thought outta your head), it felt almost _wrong_ to hang out with Two-Bit and Steve. Besides, they were always closer to Soda than to me.

Two-Bit gives me a sly grin, "I get it, it's hard without your brother around."

I feel my eyes widen. It shouldn't, but I'm also caught by surprise by how much Two-Bit really digs. He's not Soda, no one is Soda, but he's a lot deeper than anyone gives him credit for.

"How's Cathy?" he asks while stuffing three French fries in his mouth.

I wait for the raunchy joke which is sure to follow, but when it doesn't, I sigh.

"I don't know, Cathy is a real nice girl, I just don't know if we're working out."

We've been dating since November and as the weeks turned into months I felt more and more confused about our relationship.

"Go on…" Two-Bit eyes Donna's backside.

"Well, it's like I said. Cathy's she's a real nice girl. She's smart, she's pretty, she's hardworking, she has her head screwed on straight you know? She's going places."

"Not like my Kathy, huh?"

"Right," I jump up a bit, "I didn't mean that, Two-Bit."

Two-Bit just laughs, "relax kid, besides Kathy and I are on the outs now. But even when I dated her she was flightier than Pan-Am."

I resist the temptation to add, "yeah, look who she dated."

"Anyway, Cathy, she's smart and pretty and has a good sense of humor. But there's just something about her that I don't dig. I don't know how to explain it. She can get real judgmental, especially if I hang out with Curly. Always going on about how Curly tried to jump her brother. I get it and all, but Curly didn't actually jump him. She acts like I should dump all of my buddies she don't like, even though I've known Curly a lot longer than her."

I take a bite of my cheeseburger, unlike Soda, I love pickles, it's onions that I can't stand. They give me gas.

I feel bad for talking about Cathy behind her back, even though compared to the way every other guy, including Darry, has talked about their exes, I'm downright gallant.

"It ain't like I'm a great boyfriend," I start, thinking of how moody and withdrawn I can get. If Cathy's problem is that she's too blunt, I tend to keep everything to myself, expecting her to figure me out.

"Hush," Two-Bit limps his wrist and takes on a lisp, "why honey, if I was a fairy you'd be the tinker to my belle."

I shoot him the finger.

He straightens up and his regular voice returns; "now kid, I'm glad you're going to me, your older, wiser, and let's face it, WAY more experienced friend for relationship advice. But there are a few ways I see it. One, you two aren't meant for each other. Time to cut your losses kid. It ain't fair to your or to Cathy to keep stringing her along like this.

Two, you guys really are made for each other, it which case you gotta figure out what's going wrong.

Or, three, you are learning firsthand Two-Bit Mathew's rule of dating # 307 'never, ever date a chick named Cathy.' That name, my friend, is bad news."

I laugh. I wish the rules of dating really were that easy.

"How's the big guy?"

I dip my fry in the ketchup.

"Um, he's good." Truthfully, I didn't really know. We're getting along just fine since Soda left, no fights, or blow ups. But that was probably because neither of us was at home much. Darry had work, the gym and now the whirl of feistiness known as "Gretchen" in his life. With being so busy, we didn't really spend that much waking hours together.

I shook the feelings of guilt off me. Darry was keeping a busy schedule, he was probably glad he didn't have to babysit a 15 year old kid all the time. Besides, without Soda, what did we really have in common?

Once I went to college, we would have even less in common.

Two-Bit leans in, as if he wants to say something. But at the last minute he pulls away.

"You know who ain't doin' so well, kid? Steve."

"Steve? The last time I saw him at the DX he was his normal chipper self." I shoot Two-Bit a sly grin, but Two-Bit just shakes his head.

"I mean it Ponyboy. I've been talking to Evie, and well you know our Steve ain't exactly Mr. Sunshine on a good day, now with Soda's gone, I don't know Pony. Evie is afraid that he's gonna do something real stupid…"

I look at Two-Bit and I suddenly realize that jovial, wisecracking, Two-Bit looks old.

"You know, Evie, she's crazy about Steve, but she told me that if Steve doesn't straighten up, she's gonna leave him. Vamoose. Sayonara. And you know what Pony? I believe her."

I couldn't imagine Evie ever breaking up with Steve. But Two-Bit looked deadly serious and I figure that Two-Bit would know the score.

"Okay, what can I do?" I wanted to help, and not just because Steve was Soda's best buddy and he would have been so disappointed in me if I didn't try to help Steve. But, Steve Randle sure as hell wasn't going to take relationship advice from me.

Hell, given how things were going with Cathy, I wouldn't take relationship advice from me.

Two-Bit shoots me a Cheshire cat grin, "you're gonna to talk to Steve."

I give Two-Bit an incredulous look. Steve and I, we're better than we were two years ago, and I think I'm sorta growing on him, even if he's too stubborn to admit it. But were not exactly best buddies.

Two –Bit looks right at me, "If anyone can talk him down, it's you."

And like a gladiator, I prepared to face the lion.

* * *

 _ **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**_

 _ **She also owns Terry Jones (That Was Then, This is Now) Steve Hays and B.J. (Rumble Fish).**_

 _ **I haven't made a decision yet, but I'm tinkering with changing the rating of this story to M to best reflect what's going to be happening with Soda's Vietnam experience. Even though these chapters at home are solidly T.**_

 _ **Thank you to everyone who reviews, favorites, follows and reads, it means the world. :)**_


	19. Detachment

_**Another weird chapter. What can I say, Soda in Vietnam just brings out the crazy in me? ;) WARNING:**_

 _ **This chapter contains racial slurs , racism, and description of mistreatment (to put it in euphemistic terms) of the dead. While I tried to write it without being overly graphic, emotionally, it is a charged topic.**_

 _ **Since the theme of this chapter is detachment, I wanted to show Soda's own detachment by writing his thoughts in 1st, 2nd and 3rd person.**_

* * *

Detachment is a weird ass phenomenon.

You're _in_ the scene and even though your senses are goin' into a frenetic overdrive where the bulls of taste, touch, smell, sight and hearing ram and slam their sharp horns into you, leavin' you a bloody carcass, **YOU** ain't there.

I don't mean like I was floating above, watching from the clouds with a half-ass interest, or some other crazy hippie hocus-pocus bullshit. Hell, I had some of Chavez's funeral weed, but not _that_ much. _Man, I could use some weed right now, might help calm me down._

No, what I mean is emotionally detached.

Do you know what it's like to _expect_ to feel an overpowering emotion, but instead feel nothing?

It's a five-hundred pound feather zooming down from the sky like a lightening bolt on speed; and you think it's gonna slam into you, pulverize you, crush you. Because shit, feather or not, it's five-hundred pounds, of course it's gonna hurt like the dickens.

And you prepare yourself for the crush. Maybe, you're almost lookin' forward to it. Cravin' it.

But in the end it only tickles the tips of the hair on your arms.

* * *

You know that a chicken can live without it's head? Creepy, huh? Pony told me that, a long time ago. He used to read this book called, " _Weird Facts and Wild Stories_ "

Well, that's detachment.

For years I felt everything. The sweet emotions cuttin' into me as deeply as the harsh ones. Yet, I could never imagine _not feeling_ any more than I could never imagine not breathing or being without a heartbeat.

But here I was, the headless chicken, without emotion but still able to function in the physical world.

I felt a shoe lace-strip of salty-sweat run down the side of my face, felt it mosey over my lips and enter my mouth. There the sweat met, dated and screwed with the bubbled up saliva already at home in my warm mouth.

And even though I felt every foam bubble inside my mouth I felt no emotion inside of me.

* * *

Man, I'm sorry. Headless chicken? Five-hundred pound feather? I ain't good at tryin' to describe things. What I'm trying to say is being detached is screwed up.

* * *

When I was little, Steve and me, we put Mom's pantyhose over our faces and pretended that we were bank robbers. Don't ask. Everything seemed claustrophobic and gauzy through the mask of the pantyhose. That is what detachment is like.

* * *

It was four days after I arrived in Vietnam that I saw my first body. Male. 5'5, curled up lip, confused expression, almost dainty hands, surprisingly big feet, slight open mouth. He looked curious, as if he was trying to figure out a mystery or solving a jigsaw puzzle. I hoped he found what he was lookin' for before he died. I wondered if he had a family? I wondered if he had hobbies? If so, what were they? Did he like to fish? Or hunt? What 'bout reading? Did he non-fiction or fiction?

What did he think of the war? What did he think in the deepest depths of his mind where God was the only guest? What did he tell himself when he woke up that morning?

Did he tell himself that he was goin' be A-OK that day and make it back to his people alive? Did he believe his lie?

I wondered if he joined the army, or was drafted? I wonder what he felt the minute the bullet tore into him. I wonder if he felt anything? If he knew what was happening.

What was the second like between aliveness and death? Did he know he was going to die?

Is there a flick of a match where life turns to death? The transition between life and death reduced to the briefest of sparks? Which seems sorta disappointing, like a dud of a firecracker show.

Or, is death a daisy cutter? Explodin' red-orange flames and grey-white smoke, the boom of extinction breaking in the house of life with such power, you can't believe that you were once alive in the first place.

Or, maybe it happens so seamlessly, you don't know it's happening. That's what Darry told Pony right after the crash. "Mom and Dad, they weren't in any pain, they died instantly and felt nothing." That was the first thing Darry wanted to know after Mom and Dad got killed, making sure that they weren't in no agony.

* * *

Pony, loudly chewing up his funeral pork chop, "Are Mom and Dad in heaven?"

"What? Yeah, kiddo of course Mom and Dad are in heaven." Darry shot me a look, but I just shrugged. Truthfully, I was just as confused by Pony's question as Darry and usually I get my kid brother like all git out.

Pony looked Darry in the eyes, "so, when they look down at us do they grieve for us? Are they mournin' for us like we're mourning for them? Are they in agony up there? Because we're sure _**as hell** _in agony down here."

Darry sighed, "Try to lay off the cursin' Pony. I dunno. They're in heaven. Remember what the pastor said, there's no pain or sorrow in heaven, only joy." Darry looked at me, beggin' me to throw him a life line, but before I could help, Pony spoke up, his eyes deeply concentrating on his dinner plate.

"Looking down on earth and seein' your kids crack open with grief and still feel nothin' but joy because _you're_ in heaven, that don't sound like heaven to me. That sounds like hell."

Then with finality, Pony looked up at us, "that pastor, he was wrong. Mom and Dad are in heaven, and they mourn for us and mom cries and dad screams because they love us and they miss us. And when I'm choking on grief and sadness, when I have nightmares and can't get outta bed, I gotta believe that Mom and Dad are grieving with me and for me. Because they're still our parents. They ain't detached from us. They're still apart of us."

* * *

The dead man, was he in heaven?

And, if he's in heaven, is he looking down at the men who killed him? Does he hate us? Or, does he understand? Or, maybe he's in hell. Maybe he's a real bad guy and we did the world a favor by wastin' him.

And if you go to hell, what's that trip like? Maybe it starts off real nice and gentle, like your just playing in one of them beautiful old meadows. You know what I mean, the flowers are in bloom, and it's all misty and it looks like one of 'em commercials for soap or something like that.

So, you think to yourself, "shit, this is sweet. Guess I really fooled ol' God, because I should be in hell, but this place is far out."

But then the meadows turn into burning caves of agony and torment, and all you got is that vague edge of a memory of the meadow. Lyin' just outta reach.

* * *

Or maybe it's what Pony was gettin' at, hell is detachment.

You feel nothing. Not the beauty, not the grief, not the revulsion.

You can't even feel yourself.

* * *

I thought about that dead man for a long time. Probably longer than I needed.

* * *

Darry is the best person at solving jigsaw puzzles in my family. I don't have the patience and Pony is always thinking outside the box. When he was 4 or so, he tried to jam two mismatched pieces together. Mom told him that they don't go together. Pony, just said, "they do in _my_ mind."

* * *

 ** _LATER..._**

* * *

Soda P. Curtis killed a man and felt nothing. Unlike the first man, he couldn't even remember what this guy looked like.

Wet cement fillin' up the hole of emotion and memory.

* * *

Detached. Watching through mom's pantyhose. Shooting guns. But this time, the guns are real and it's the emotions cheap-ass plastic toys.

* * *

His mind went blank after he pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

"Shouldn't I feel something?" Soda asked himself. He hoped not out-loud, cause then the guys would really think Soda was really flippin' his wig.

* * *

First, Soda tried fear.

Soda tried to psyche himself up by bashing his head to a pulp with the 2x4 of God's wrath. His Grandma Curtis was crazy religious.

 _Killing someone, that's a sin. That's a go straight to hell, ain't no mercy for you, capital S, SIN._

 **See,** Soda did pay attention to Grandma Curtis, _sometimes._

But not even invokin' hell's flames could make Soda afraid

* * *

He tries empathy

Trying to imagine the dead guy with a baby, or maybe a sweet wife who is gonna go batshit crazy now that her papa san is dead. He thought of himself and his own brothers after their parents were killed, just for a titty twist of good measure.

Nothing.

Not for these imaginary people and even less for the boy he was once.

* * *

When empathy don't work, Soda tries hatred.

Trying to picture the dink mutilating American dead.

Soda once heard of a guy left to rot like a scarecrow, baby birds nesting his chest cavity. Cycle of life and all that bull.

Soda tells himself that he wanted Coop, and Philly and Tap, and all 'em guys dead. Nope.

Soda can't even muster up indignant hatred on his buddies behalf.

If he can't hate on behalf of the people he's supposed to hate for, what good is he?

* * *

Nothing.

That man, he coulda been Jesus Christ himself, and Soda wouldn't have felt anything.

Well, maybe surprise that Jesus was 'Cong.

* * *

If fear, empathy and hatred didn't work, Soda would try graspin' at another shortest straw in the bowl: arousal.

He wanted to think about killing the man and then feel like he just screwed the hottest chick in the world.

You know, ejaculate bullets and all that jizz. Ha.

But nothing.

* * *

He's dead, but how could he be dead when he wasn't alive in the first place?

He was never alive because if he was, Soda reckoned he should of felt _something_ when he died.

But maybe it was Soda who died. Maybe this was is hell. To aimlessly wander through life, not feeling anything.

* * *

Cooper at least feels something, even if it's sick and twisted.

* * *

Soda asked him why he cuts the body parts off of the dead. He told Soda that at first he did it because he was promised a bottle of wine for an ear, and that seemed like a fine ass bargain to him, so that's the story behind the first souvenir.

Then he told Soda he felt hate for those guys and he wanted to cut 'em up and leave their corpses disfigured so that they couldn't have a proper burial. So that their ghosts haunted the land that haunted Coop's dreams.

* * *

Soda understood.

* * *

Soda thought of his own death, of his body being sliced and diced, arms and legs being severed.

He felt nothing.

* * *

Coop told Soda that he don't even really hate them Charlies anymore. Some of 'em, he thought were pretty brave guys. He just does it because it's routine.

A pattern.

* * *

Mom, used to sew. She kept sample patterns in the upper drawer in the desk we have in our living room.

Pony is three, he accidentally stabs himself in the hand with Mom's needle, he's bleeding. Badly. He screams out in pain. I hold his hand. _"I love you, I love you, You gonna be okay, Pony. I love you, I love you."_ I tell him.

In the back seat. Mom rushing him to the ER. He's wrapped up in a towel. Blue, or maybe brown. No, tan. A tan towel.

His blood gets all over me.

I don't mind.

Because he's my brother.

And I love him.

And I feel. I can feel. Fear and love. For my brother. His blood is my blood.

We are cut from the same pattern. The three of us. Us brothers. Blood.

* * *

 _Cutting off body parts, for Coop it's song. It's a rhythm. It's a beat. It's a dance._

 _You know how it is, you start tapping your foot, slowly, and soon, before you know it, your entire body is going crazy. Sweating and moving around._

 _You love to dance._

 _"It's something to do Curtis, ain't nothing personal." he shrugs his shoulder._

 _He tells you that it relaxes him. It calms him down._

 _Better than smoking dope. That's what he said._

* * *

Soda ask to look at Cooper's collection.

Cooper keeps it hidden cause you're technically not supposed to disturb the dead, never mind keepin' your own exclusive collection on base.

But Coop is such a good soldier that even if they catch him, they're gonna turn a blind eye to it.

Ha! Get it? _**Blind eye?!** _Fuck. Ain't Soda a damn comedian.

He keeps them in a pine box, sorta like a coffin, but a baby sized coffin. Which makes it all the more fucked up and perverted.

Inside, the wood coffin is divided into sections, ears, thumbs, other fingers.

It's very organized.

* * *

Reminds me of mom's recipe box. Appetizers in front, then jellos, then meats, side dishes and desserts

* * *

Soda paws through the desserts.

Ears.

He got 2 ears in his collection.

They don't look like they're from the same fella. But who knows?

Brown, shriveled up and leathered.

Soda ask if he can touch.

He don't know what to expect.

But Soda Curtis has this urge to touch, to feel. To feel something besides a hollow-emptiness, even if it's a shriveled up ear. He desperately wants this dried up piece of flesh to be his rejuvenation. His rebirth into the land of the feeling and the home of the living.

He touches it.

It's cold.

The ear is twisted up.

It's hard.

His hand snaps back like it did when Soda was a kid and touched a hot stove.

Cooper just laughs, "it's not gonna bite you Curtis."

Soda touches it again.

He felt…nothing. No blood lust, no need to gag, no need to turn away, no marveling at the miracle of the human body even in it's detached, broken form. Nothing.

"That guy, that dink, that got himself killed…"

Soda's voice is far away. It ain't a part of him. It's as twisted as the ear. As cold and hard. His voice becomes the ear.

Words slur out, but he ain't drunk.

He wishes he was though. Because even drunk Soda can still feel.

"Curtis, it's best when you're here not to feel anything, not to think, because when you do, that's when you make mistakes. You're good. Besides, if you really felt nothing, you wouldn't be feelin' so anguished over _not_ feeling anything."

Cooper slapped Soda on the back hard, his way of saying "get over it kid."

* * *

So, I got over it.

And that night, I'm the life of the party. I win $20.00 in poker. Lose about $30.00, but who the hell is countin'?

Oh yeah, Neal is. I owe him 'bout $50.00.

And it ain't like I wanted to have a damn breakdown over this dead dink, but I wanted to feel something, anything. Even hate, anger is better to feel than nothingness after you killed someone.

You hate someone and you kill them: makes sense. You hate someone BECAUSE you had to kill them because you're in a war and it's a dog eat dog world: also, makes sense. You kill a man and hate yourself: makes perfect sense.

Sadness, sorrow, power, release, joy, grief, all these emotions make sense.

You kill a man and feels nothing: that's effed up.

I didn't want a guilty conscious, or a blood lust, I didn't want to become so emotional I couldn't fight not more. I just wanted to feel something. Even if, especially if, I ended a man's life.

* * *

And then later on, I got my wish.

* * *

 ** _S.E. Hinton owns_**

 ** _Thanks for reviews, reads, likes and follows. :)_**


	20. Interlude

_**A/N: While I figure out Soda's brothers and their adventures in Tulsa 1967, another 'concept' piece from Soda. A look, from his POV on trauma, a reflection on his life in 1978. As you probably figured out, now that we're in Vietnam, the Soda chapters don't follow any particular pattern: they go backwards and forwards in time and I like to write in a more experimental style to show how off kilter Soda's experiences are.**_

* * *

 _ **1978**_

I'm doing better. Now the only horses I ride come out of stables, not syringes.

My nightmares only happen on occasion. The type of nightmares I get has changed as well. Before, I felt like I was reliving the scene all over again. I could feel, taste, touch, see, hear everything. Now, my nightmares are fuzzier, like a T.V. with bad reception.

Sometimes, they're so fuzzy I find myself squinting in my dreams, trying to see what is going on, but I only see snapshots, edges of colors and shapes.

I'm happy that the nightmares have slowed down, because damn, do you know how embarrassing it is to wake up in the middle of the night crying, screaming, freaking out, going nuts and have no control over your body or your mind?

I don't do that anymore. When I have bad dreams and nightmares, I've learned to wade into them, very slowly. I lie in bed, the teflon blankets up to my neck. That's another thing, I used to hate covers, but when I have bad dreams, the covers offer a layer of protection, a layer of separation between me and the nightmares.

My eyes will open and I'll scan the room back and forth, and pretty soon I'll be able to make out objects in the room: the shadow of the lampshade, the shape of my woman's body next to me, sometimes I'll lean into her, putting her arm over my chest, her petite wrist and sharp elbow against my heart. She steadies its beats.

And wouldn't you just know it, that 5'1, 107 lb firefly, she keeps me safe?

Sometimes that makes me feel guilty, because I'm her man, and I'm supposed to be the one who keeps her safe and protect her with my life. I do, and will defend her until I can't draw a breath. But at night, she protects me, and she don't even know it.

Those times where the dreams don't stop and her body alone can't protect me from myself, I'll wake her up and talk to her. But not often, I don't want to be a burden. So, usually, I'll gently remove her arm from my chest and as quietly as I can, get out of bed, cringing at the sound of my side of the bed creaking.

I get dressed in a pair of dirty old sweats and a sweatshirt my brother got me from his college, and I'll go outside and take a walk.

One time, I accidentally locked myself out my house at 3:30 in the morning, while Mary was dead to the world. I swear, she could sleep durin' the Apocalypse. That's thing about my wife, she's a real deep sleeper. You can bet I was real popular with the neighbors that night. If you think 'Cong are scary, you oughta see Mr. Thomas at that hour of the night.

But as perverted and corrupt as those nightmares are, as much as they twist my insides swallow my guts whole, part of me is afraid of lettin' go.

Because letting go of my nightmares also means letting go of my memories and when the nightmares fade and fuzz, so too does the good stuff, the parts I want to remember.

Vietnam was the worst and best thing that ever happened to me.

I know you're crinkling your nose up and squinting your eyes, wondering what in the Sam Hill I'm talking about. Probably wondering what's wrong with me (you got a decade to spare?).

How can a war where hundreds of thousands died, no, scratch that, they didn't just 'die' they were killed, murdered, firecrackered off this earth and pulverized into nicotine laced napalm dust, be anything other than a tragedy?

And that part was and _is_ a disaster: physical, moral and spiritual. The lucky ones get destroyed physically one time. The unlucky are those who die and get resurrected every day, only to die again; the living whose souls are gappin' howitzer size wounds where even God fears to tread and where the Devil moseys on in, takes a good look at the landscape and says, "I think I'd like to stay awhile, pard."

But there's another part of war they don't tell you about. Even those guys you see who get real gung-ho on playin' army, fancying themselves 4 star generals from their "would you like fries with that, ma'am" command posts, they don't get, no matter how many boners they give themselves imagining what it would be like to be in a war.

If you've never fought, you can't understand it. You don't get the adrenalin rush, the intensity, the feeling of euphoria that comes from surviving a brush of death.

The only thing that comes close is the drugs, and even that is a pale imitation of the horse.

You don't get the love. When I was in 'Nam, I saw these guys, big guys, macho guys, guys with balls of steel and hearts of stone, caress their dying buddies in the arms. They held onto their friends like a mother does her only child, pressed their friend to their chest which inside beat the heart of a man who could kill with robotic precession and looked their friends in the eyes, because they did not want their buddy to die alone. And in that moment, if they could grow breasts with lifesaving milk that would have willed their buddy back to life, they would gladly grow hooters the size of Texas Longhorns.

You don't get the love that causes men to risk their lives to recover the shredded body of their buddy.

You don't get how hate and love feed each other, until they explode in a pattern of bloody entrails.

You don't get how the worst acts in war, the ones where even the Devil himself will look at the perpetrator and say, 'you ain't mine, your sin is too warped-sick even for me;' are sometimes the result of a love so intense and all consuming that it will drive a man blood thirsty with grief.

That's not to say there weren't some real sadists out here, there were. Men who got off on hurting people, including babies and children.

But most of the people here were teenagers, average everyday American boys put into a situation they couldn't understand.

Hate and love, evil and goodness, hell and heaven, emptiness and fullness all one in the same.

Like for me, I fathered my son in Vietnam and I hurt and killed people, human beings, in Vietnam, and honestly, I'm tellin' y'all, there are some days where I can't tell the difference between the two.

So if you can't understand what I'm sayin' don't feel bad. That don't make you stupid, it makes you normal, wonderfully, enviably normal. And ignorant.

So all I'm gonna say is, judge me all you want, because I judge myself harshest of all, but understand that unless you walked in my combat boots, you can't understand.

Mary and me, we're living down in Tulsa now. I got a job at an oil refinery, backbreaking labor, minimum wage, but I don't complain. Mary, is a hairdresser. She works at a little shop and she's always experimenting with different styles and techniques. She's real talented.

Pony is up in Canada, doing real well. Got himself a wife and a sweet little baby girl who I swear is a carbon copy of her daddy. I miss the hell out of him though. I miss my travel buddy. My best friend.

Darry is holding down the fort in Tulsa. He's successful, just like we all knew he'd be, most importantly he's happy. He's a good man and an even better brother.

One thing my shrinks has been tryin' to teach me is that trauma had a mind and clock of its own. People think trauma is supposed to be like seeing an object in the rearview mirror, at first it's real close and you can touch it, but as you drive forward it gets farther and farther away until it disappears into the horizon.

But, that's not how trauma works. There are days, months, even years where things gradually seem to be getting better, before you get thrown right back in that hole. People look at you, even people you love and who love you, and though they don't say anything out loud, you know deep down they're thinking to themselves, "man, ain't you over that shit by now?"

Trauma goes backwards and forwards in time, a drunk ass country line dancer stepping on the feet of everyone around them.

" _Soda, it's okay that you still have nightmares. That's normal; they're nothing to be ashamed of. You're going to have good and bad days for the rest of your life. That doesn't make you, in your words, a 'fucked up pussy ass nutjob' but a human being who has gone through experiences that a weaker person would not be able to survive. But you did."_

When I think of Vietnam, I don't think of it in terms of linear time. Sure, I can tell you the date I was deployed, the date I came back, but most of the events and memories mush up together. They repeat themselves. When I talk about Vietnam, I don't talk about it in a smooth narrative with a beginning, a middle and an end, but a broken mirror of memories.

My stories start and stop and go back to the middle then the end than the real end and finally back to the beginning. Because that is what Vietnam is like for me, it never ends.

I've made some mentions of things to come, I think Pony says they're called, 'cliffhangers?' But I haven't jumped in the swamp of what happened in Vietnam yet, the good and the bad. I haven't told you the best and worst of what I lived there.

I think I'm ready now. All I can say is, God, please forgive me. But even that I say to the Almighty with a dubious glance. Because God wasn't in Vietnam, so He has no right to judge me either.

And truth be told when I exfoliate myself of all this junk,when I tell myself and others what happened in Vietnam, I AM one of the lucky ones. Not just because I came back alive or because I am fortunate to have the best family and friends a guy could ask for, but because I experienced nowhere near the worst. I am very conscience of that fact now. It could have been so much worse.

There are stories that cannot be told, not because no one is around to tell it, but because no one is around to believe it.

It doesn't matter what side of the war you fought on, or if you were a civilian or a soldier, Vietnam is a minefield of stories and traumas.

So when I talk about Vietnam, I want people to be aware that there are guys way worst off than I am. I have no right to sympathy when my own traumas feel like the weight of a paper clip in comparison to the BOLT-117 some others carry with them

Before I continue onward and upward, or, is that backward and downward; let me tell you this story:

* * *

There's a guy on base by the name of Spinelli. Didn't know him that well, didn't even know his first name. Not sure if I ever had a conversation with him. I tried to talk to everyone, cause well, I love talking and being with people, but I don't remember ever really saying anything to this guy.

Anyway, one day out of the blue I have this dream that Spinelli is killed. The dream is weird because, like I said before, I hardly know Spinelli at all. That evening he was killed in combat, just like I saw in my dream: tripped over a bouncin' betty.

I ain't saying that I'm some sort of psychic or that I predicted Spinelli's death. All I'm saying is that in 'Nam, you kill people in your dreams.

* * *

 _ **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**_

 ** _Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, read, favorite, followed the story. :)_**

 ** _Eagle eye readers will notice that Soda's reference to horses is a reference to his heroin addiction, which was dealt with in a chapter of Both Horse and Driver, my Mr. Curtis story._**


	21. The Kill

**First of all a little note: I've been REALLY struggling with my writing lately in a way I've never really have in the past. It's par for the course of being a writer, but when it happens to you, does it SUCK! :)** **So I feel I owe y'all an explanation for the quality being off.**

 **Also this chapter is tied to the 1st chapter, 'hands' and 'the elephant' In 'hands' Soda describes a time he killed someone, this is the killing he's talking about. (um, spoiler?! ;) )**

* * *

We're crossing through enemy territory, of course over here, it is all enemy territory.

* * *

When I was little, I came down with the chicken pox and I used to play connect the dot with the spots. Take the pen and press it against my skin, seeing the thin black line form parameters around the pink itchy spots which were causing me so much misery.

* * *

"Don't scratch it, Soda," my mom would tell me, her voice fully of weariness, as if she already knew I wasn't going to follow her directions.

And those motherfucks itched like, to borrow a phrase from my dad, 'the devil at an angel picnic.' But I didn't scratch. I did what I was told. Since I couldn't find relief through itching, I would dig the ink pen through the healthy skin as deep as I could, hoping that I could exchange one sort of discomfort for another type.

My mother sees me kneeling outside my bedroom door, my back moving up and down against the corner of the door. She sees me pressing the pen through my skin, a determined, fierce look covering my face.

"Soda! What are you doing?" Her voice is confused and there is a slight panic in her voice, the panic of a mother trying to keep her fears in slumber.

"Tryin' to stop the itchin', I figure if I draw on myself real hard, I won't feel no chicken pox!" I was gonna add that it was working too, until she interrupted me.

Because now the itch is back, and so is the need to scratch, to take my dirty fingernails covered in day old dirt and find relief.

She covers her hands to her mouth, "baby, you're bleeding." My mom was never a crier, but when I look up, tears drench her eyes, her mouth contorts into a cry that don't come out.

With tenderness she takes my arm in her hand.

Her touch is soothing and her hands, though a bit cool to the touch are the warmth I need in the moment.

And right now she is all I want. I want my mother's touch to stop the itching.

She looks down at it, and then at me, and she can't get that the little boy with the curious grin is the same little boy who cuts into himself with a pen.

Her hands were long and slender, bony, maybe. But just the feel of her finger tips gently pressing into my skin makes me feel safe. The top of her hands are smooth and so pale they kinda blend into the drywall.

For that second, I feel relief from my itching. And I know this is gonna sound real out there, but I can feel her love pulsate through her and into me. It's a living, breathing thing, her love.

"Look, Soda, look at your arm," her voice is wobbly and that throws me for a loop. How can she be so unsteady when I feel nothing but the warmth and love of her embrace?

I'm glad my brothers or father ain't around, because right now I don't want to share her with anyone. I want her all to myself.

I look at my arm, and what would you know, there _is_ a single thin trail of blood sliding on down from the upper forearm all the way down. I'm not gushing blood or nothing, but path is long and the blood a deep red color.

Blood never bothered me, at least my blood doesn't bother me. "Oh! I didn't feel nothing!" I say this with pride, after all blood is cool and here I was bleeding quite a bit and it was neat watching it flow down.

A speck of my blood gets on the skin between her thumb and forefinger, but the mother of three boys, mom is used to being pissed on, vomited on and bled on. She continues to hold my arm in her hand.

My mother's knees are in my face. It's weird, but that's what I remember about the moment, her knees, wobbly, bony, white and pink are in front of my face. She snatches the pen away from me.

I look up at her, "are you mad?" A few seconds ago she was crying but now she looks mad, I don't want my mom to be mad at me.

I begin to itch.

Her eyes open up a bit and she hugs me, I feel her cotton shirt pressed against my chicken pox arms.

"Of course not, but Soda, for Pete sake. You're bleeding. You need to stop. Don't do that anymore. You hear me, Soda? Now, go take a bath, okay?" Her voice is her normal smooth, stern, but loving tone.

* * *

I hear the trumpet boom with pain and confusion. A baby elephant stepped on a Bouncin' Betty. The poor little fella has part of his foot blown off. And know what I do when I see him? I cry.

Honest to God. I cry like a pussy. And he's looking at me with eyes that are full of accusation, like I planted the damn mine.

Coop, looking sadder and resigned than I've seen him, well, ever, kills the elephant to put him out of his misery.

A mercy kill.

But let me tell ya something, if you saw Coop's face you'd know that the kill brought no mercy to him.

The next morning the trumpet can be heard again, this time it is a wail of anguish so powerful that I am knocked off the stool of jadedness I've built for myself.

What the hell?

A female elephant lies over his body. She rests on top of him, as if protecting him, and strange as it sounds I felt sick watching them, like I was interrupting a very private moment of grief.

She trumpets her grief throughout the night.

She dies of grief. I know that sounds like I'm smokin' something strong, and Lordy, I wish I was. But nope, we see her, lying on top of his body dead.

There are no wounds to her, so what else killed her besides her pain?

And for a second the image of these two elephants reminds me in a way of Mary and Jesus, you know them pictures where Jesus is all nestled in Mary's arms?

Her trunk is pressed against his broken foot as if she is trying to fix his brokenness. But isn't that what moms do? Try to fix their babies?

I lose my balance and slip on his blood. My ass and legs are covered in his blood. I am bathed in his blood.

* * *

I cleanse myself off, but even a few days later, I still find a speck of her blood decoratin' my skin like lights on a Christmas Tree.

* * *

Now it seemed like every Vietcong village is a deep black hole of itchy pus, ready to swallow me whole. Problem is, we can't tell the difference between the warped skin and the healthy one. So this time I take my army issued machine gun pen and dig in through the skin of hamlets and hills.

The village is called Khe Lai. It ain't really a proper village, few old huts spread over a thick grove of trees. It's a Vietcong stronghold. The straw thatched roofs would make great stuffing for a scarecrow.

It is almost typhoon season, and sticky wetness glues onto my skin. It's night outside, and blue black shadows of trees and in the distance, mountains.

For the briefest of seconds I think that Pony would really get a kick out of it.

Closer to us the ground is red clay dirt, surrounded by dying vegetation, thick as blood mud, and every now and then, blades of grass.

It's a dangerous journey and we are at the disadvantage. From the hills they can see us, are only coverage is camouflage, green moss and twigs which make me feel like a kid goofing off on a camping trip rather than a soldier at war.

I feel the twig cut into my arm. It feels good, like a needle going into the vein.

For a second, a brief one that disappears in a blink of an eye, I think that maybe I'm on a camping trip and I can smell my father's chew tobacco and the hot dogs burning over the flame.

If I look, I can see Darry trying to teach Pony how to make smores. I can also see Pony accidentally burning his finger,because, well, Pony is a sorta accident prone.

But it's Coop who cuts through my dream state, "shit," his voice is so soft that I do a double take because his words and his voice don't mesh together.

We lie in position.

And I see him.

Or rather I see the straw hat which covers his head, and even the dark I can almost make out the beige shade of the straw. The figure is maybe about 5'7 or so. And in his hand, is a grenade.

I see the grenade. I see it. Mother fuck, I saw it.

And though my imagination is as shallow as the creek which streams beside us, I can feel my skin break in half, the cut of the bone, pink brain and yellow stomach being ripped up into jagged pieces.

Shit.

I ain't getting killed.

And my heart is beating so fast that I'm convinced that I'm three seconds away from a heart attack, in which case the fucker and his grenade would be a moot point.

But it's the sound of my heart beating, this machine gun drumbeat which makes me more determined to do what I need to do to live.

The man shifts position. He's their guard man, and his stance, at least what I can see in the dark of night is cocky. There's pride in his stance.

Don't think. Don't think about them as human beings. They ain't humans. They're gooks, dinks, and hopefully if you get your way, crispy critters.

'What we gonna do about ol Charlie over there?" I know the answer as I rub my finger on the trigger. The metal is worn and smooth against my finger and I feel my pulse through my fingertips.

Cooper, T.P, Phil and me are slithering towards the man, the rest of the platoon is sneaking around.

I know what I want to do. I want to waste him. I feel this surge of energy rush through me, my eyes blink, my heart is still beating like crazy. It's a good thing I'm well trained or else I would throwing myself at him the way I used to fight in a rumble, no holds bar. Every bit of aggression that lies deep under my skin rises to the surface.

I have a crazy smile on my face because I can feel the adrenaline kick in. It's not about killing but about surviving. This fucker wants to waste me, I want to waste him, and only one of us can win.

I see his elbow crock backwards.

I'm going to die. The feeling is both frightening and strangely soothing, because what the hell can I do?

A second ago I was getting my high on the idea of killing him, now, I feel nothing but a soft, gentle calm.

I feel my mother's hands on my arms, I feel bliss.

But my body is not ready to die yet, because without realizing it my body takes over. I push Phil out of the way and fire three shots.

It is the very act of taking a human life that I'm vaulted back into the land of the living. Electricity surges within me. I am alive.

And it's clean. My kill is clean. I had no choice. The kill is so clean I can bathe my soul in it.

I faced death and smashed him in the face. I'm laughing, it's a crazy laugh and I'm this close to fuckin' hugging T.P, which can tell you how out of it I am.

I'm so excited, I almost piss my pants. The elation and joy I feel in this moment is like nothing I've ever felt in my life, outside of riding horses.

Best of all, I saved a life. I saved Phil's life. I remember the silent promise I made at boot camp, that we were both going to come out of this hellhole alive.

All my life underneath my grin is a barbed wire of darkness. There are times when I feel worthless and a waste of space. I don't tell no one about those feelings because they'd probably ship me off to a mental hospital. Plus, I'd feel bad worrying them.

But I am not a waste of space, a speck of dust. I am a life saver.

I am bathing in the glory of myself.

There is a joy which breaks within me, a pure joy that I haven't had since I was a little kid and Vietnam, she's my savior.

I killed a man but all I can think about is the life of the men that I saved. This is what I was put on this earth to do, to save a life.

Fuck, high school drop out, can't spell worth shit, ain't got nothin' going for him, life savior.

Me, Soda Curtis, fuckin' hero! Can you believe it? I mean…

God damn!

This ain't my first kill, but there is more than just duty or obligation in this kill, there is glory. I saved a life.

For the briefest of seconds, I wonder if this is what my mom felt when she birthed my brothers and me?

* * *

It's dawn and the sun is coming up.

His body is still lying there, sloped at an angle. from the distance I can see the top part of his head completely blown off, pink brain matter exposed.

I walk past him. My heart races, I take a shallow breath and hyperventilate.

Because the man I killed?

He was a boy no older than Ponyboy. Fifteen year old. I killed a child; too young to grow a beard, too young to fight, too young to kill, way too young to be killed.

The fact that he had a grenade means nothing now, it provides me no relief. I begin to itch, first just my arms, but then my legs and my stomach and my chest; my entire body does a jig.

Me, Soda Curtis, kid killer.

His ear is severed off his head by my bullet.

* * *

His mother finds his body where we left it. I hear her wail and scream. And how do I know it's his mama? Because her scream is the deep soul burning grief that only a mother has. She sounds like an elephant.

* * *

His blood I can't cleanse myself of, because it is not lying on the surface of my skin, but underneath.

Her scream an itch that cannot be scratched.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns. Thanks for reading.**


	22. Gone with the Wind

_**A/N: It feels like it has been forever since I've added to this story. This chapter is sort of a transition chapter, sort of a catch-up summary chapter. I hope you enjoy. :)**_

* * *

"You want to see a movie? _Gone with the Wind_ is playing at the Bowman…" Cathy Carlson tucked her shoulder length black hair behind her ears and absent mindedly ran her hands across her thighs, smoothing the small crease on her yellow pedal pushers.

She turned to her boyfriend and squinted, the mid-afternoon sun fell directly behind Ponyboy, framing his face in a blinding glow. The sun hurt her eyes, and Cathy looked down at her Birktenstocks.

 _On their third date she wore a yellow laced dress, a knitted whited jacket and black high heels. Pony told her she looked hot. She remembered the way he grinned when he said it, without a trace of his usual shyness or self-consciousness._

" _My dress isn't too short?" She asked blushing, despite the cold, as she pulled on the hem of her dress; on the mannequin the hem came just above the knees, but on Cathy the hem ended mid-thigh. It was December and nylons provided no defense against the stinging bitterness of the winter breeze moving up her legs like icicles across a naked tree branch Cathy could feel the goosebumps shiver on her skin._

 _Ponyboy, wearing a fresh pressed pair of blue jeans and a simple white dress shirt and black leather jacket, put his arms around his girlfriend, "it's perfect Cathy, and so are you," he said with an almost wolfish grin as he pulled her into a long kiss._

 _His breath smelled like Certs. Cathy could taste the cool mint taste tickle her tongue long after the kiss was over._

 _Cathy leaned into his chest, she thought she could feel his heartbeat, but maybe it was only her own._

 _Ponyboy was a year younger, but when he put his arm around her, Cathy felt like she was the younger one. Cathy couldn't explain it, but it made her feel safe and protected. All her life she was her mother's second in command, changing diapers and fixing bottles at six, putting the baby to bath and bed at ten. Cathy figured, with no small amount of tired pride, she probably tended to more scraped knees and cuts than even the nurses at the hospital's pediatric ward._

 _It felt nice to have someone take care of her for once._

 _That night at the Winter Carnival Dance, she looked deep into Pony's probing green-grey eyes and felt goosebumps, this time the cold had nothing to do with it._

 _Pony was gorgeous. Cathy didn't want to be one of those shallow girls who only cared about what sport her boyfriend played or whether or not he was a looker. But she couldn't help but feel something inside her stir when she caught a glance at his fine, almost arresting features. His eyelashes were longer than hers._

 _It was only when they walked into the gymnasium, The Who's "My Generation" blaring from the loudspeakers made up like snowmen, with the strobe lights beating down on the gym floor, forming pulsating snowflakes under their feet, and the harsh light hit Pony's face, accentuating the very eyes that made her swoon just a few minutes ago, transforming them into giant strobe lights of their own, that Cathy realized that despite his chiseled, track-star features, how young he really was._

It was now June and Pony made no comment on her yellow pants, or her canary yellow barrettes. Cathy inwardly cringed, gosh she felt desperate. She never saw herself as being needy for praise and she reckon she wouldn't be, if she knew where she stood with Ponyboy.

The two of them were spending less and less time with each other, they both had part time jobs and were gearing for their senior year, she and her family were still dealing with the fallout from M&M's bad acid trip, and Pony and his oldest brother were trying to adjust their brother joining the army.

At a time when Cathy thought they should be leaning on each other for support, they were drifting further and further apart.

Pony, turned to her and gave her a slow, easy grin. "Frankly, my dear…" he began his Clark Gable impression, "that sounds like a damn good idea."

Pony's humor was usually sarcastic, but sometimes he surprised Cathy with his quirky side. Guys on the east side generally could not be described as "quirky," just Ponyboy Curtis and maybe M&M… Cathy swallowed the air, thinking about her beautiful brother who even though he was physically and even mentally back to normal, seemed off to her.

Nope, she wasn't going to spend all her time thinking about her brother. Besides, she deserved to have an afternoon with her boyfriend, didn't she?

Cathy smiled, and inwardly sighed with relief. Cathy didn't dig movies the way Pony did, but then no one dug movies the way Ponyboy Curtis did, but perhaps Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara would rekindle their romance?

Cathy sighed and leaned towards Pony, hoping to once again to feel the safety and security she felt with him on that December night. Pony stroked her hair, but as he held her, all she could feel was how skinny his arms felt around her. The leather jacket sure added a lot of warmth and weight.

* * *

Rockets, Soda Curtis decided were soothing. Not incoming rockets, although Soda found something exciting about the fear that zipped up his body, his chest rising up and down, his eyes bugged out and his mouth dry. What type of idiot gets off on havin' fucking rockets shot at his ass? Soda shook his head with mild self-disgust, and looked up at the wide empty skies, half hoping to have another round of rocketed propelled grenade bust open his night.

He felt the same exhilaration when he rode a particularly moody horse or pumped his sneakers down on the accelerator and zoomed 90 miles per hour down the drag strip, with the windows rolled down and the wind blowing through his hair, Soda felt like was flying.

He didn't want to examine why he starved for the thrill of risking his life and limb, only that there was something almost comforting when the claws of danger gripped into his skin.

But outgoing rockets, those were almost as soothing as lullabies, screechy, loud, one-note lullabies to be sure, but lullabies still the same. Soda never dug covers or blankets, too confining, but the sound of the rockets was almost warm, it wrapped around him. His heartbeat and the rockets took on the same rhythm, beating in perfect synchronized time. There were times when just before he fell asleep, when his eyes were thick and heavy weighted stones, and he would listen to the rockets and place his hand on his beating heart, unable to tell the difference.

Soon, he couldn't sleep without the rockets. If there were no rockets he would pace back and forth in his hooch, lining up one foot in front of the other as if walking a tight rope.

"Shit, Curtis is sleepwalkin' again" someone mumbled, Soda couldn't see who. He was too busy looking down at his bare feet, feeling his toes press against his ankles, concentrating so he wouldn't fall into the black abyss.

That night Soda couldn't sleep, but it had nothing to do with rockets. It was the boy that he killed, the dead elephant, the woman screaming a tormented siren from the darkest pits of hell that kept him up. His eyes blinking almost as rapidly as his heart was beating Soda got up, he thought about walking his tight rope again, he found himself stumbling, the room started to spin. Bunks and sleeping bodies whirled past him…

 _When I was a little kid one of my favorite things to do was spin myself dizzy. I would twirl like one of 'em little spin tops until I was one spin away from upchucking all over poor Pone or Darry, and then I'd stop. I'd never did throw up though. Why? I dunno. Stomach of steel, I guess._

Is the world spinning off its axis? Nah, Soda thought, it's only my world that's spiraling out of control.

 _Shit._

He looked for something to pull him up, to steady his gaze. The darkness was spooky, and Soda hoped for incoming rockets if only for the light they would provide. He thought about waking up Phil, he already told Phil his big secret, the one he couldn't even fully divulge to Pony. He told Phil that he signed up for Vietnam in part because of a creepy dream he had that his brother was gonna die in 'Nam, and he was only here to take his brother's place. Phil didn't burst out laughing or treat him like he should be locked up in a mental institution. _Even though I probably should be locked in a loony bin for signing up for this shit,_ Soda let out harsh grunt.

 _No_ , he quickly thought, _if going to war and even dying would prevent Pony from having to come here, it will all be worth it._

My brother is a real good guy, Soda thought, curving up his lips into a slight smile when he thought of his youngest brother.

He took a hard stare at Philip "Irish" Mihailovich, kid was sound asleep. Soda couldn't wake him. Besides, Soda thought with shame what the hell am I supposed to say, " _Hey Philly I'm having a nightmare, can I cuddle with you?" Shit. I'm eighteen years old and a soldier, I'm too old for this crap. Or, maybe, too young._

 _Who the hell knows anymore?_

Besides there was another reason he couldn't talk to Phil, shame. Not shame of having the nightmares but shame of touching Coop's special collection. Soda grimaced as he felt a phantom ear under fingers. What the hell is wrong with me? He felt sobs rack through his chest, everything is just so fucked up, _I'm so fucked up._

This had been one hell of week. Shoot, this week lasted an entire life time. He shot a man, touched dead body parts, rode an elephant, got drunk, played poker,

saw a dead elephant, and oh yeah, killed a kid.

 _He couldn't have been any older than fourteen or fifteen…_

There was no time to process anything, everything happened so damn fast, no wonder the world was spinning, it couldn't keep up with him.

Since he couldn't wake up Phil, he did the next best thing he stared to write a letter to Darry. He wobbled back to his bunk.

Pulling the covers over him, he didn't want to disturb no one else's sleep, hell even if he was suffering, why should anyone else? He took out a flashlight and began to write…

 _Darry,_

 _Before I start this letter, I gotta ask you a favor. If you can't say yes, please just throw this letter away. Okay, here goes. You probably noticed, oh, hell; I know you noticed; that I sent this letter to your work and not home._

 _Pretty sneeky, huh?_

 _Truth is, I don't want Pony to see this letter. I feel so slimey keeping a secret from him. But for his sake, I can't tell him. I love him so much. I love you too man, but all my life you've been the strong, solid one in my life. It ain't fair; but I trust you._

 _Please forgive me._

Soda gasped for air. God, how he missed his brothers. It was funny, he wanted to help his brothers, help Darry with the bills and help put Pony through college, but all the money in the world didn't mean shit if he would never see them again.

No. Don't think that way, Soda scolded himself, digging his finger nails into his skin and twisting it.

The blanket felt so heavy, but Soda felt stuck, he couldn't move the blanket, it was like bulletproof vest, it hid him.

He sighed, thinking of Pony's yearbook photo he received in the mail. Glory, he couldn't believe Pony was gonna be a senior in high school in September. Now that was wild! It amazed Soda at how just a few months shy of turning sixteen, how old and tall and mature his brother had gotten.

He's 6'0 tall, Soda shook his head. _Unbelievable._

 _The kid I killed was about 5'7_

As amazed and proud of Ponyboy, Soda also felt a painful ache, Pony was growing up, he really didn't need Soda no more, and if Pony didn't need Soda, what good was he?

Did Pony still wear his clothes? He remembered how Pony used to wear his sweat shirts and how they draped him like a curtain. Not anymore, Soda thought, hell, he'd be better off borrowing clothes from Darry at the rate he's goin'.

He shut his eyes and pushed the photo of Pony to the side and re-imagined his brother as the thirteen year old kid Soda climbed into bed with when they both had nightmares after their parents died. Of course, no one knew about Soda's nightmares. Compared to Pony's night terrors they weren't important enough.

 _Young and innocent_ , _we were so young and innocent back then._ The weight of his words crusted the back of his throat it tasted like bitter-sweet fishiness of the cod liver oil his mother gave him. He swallowed hard.

 _God how he wished he could go back, to his brothers, to his buddies, to his parents, even back to the days when he was a little boy and his mother had to chase him through the house to get him to swallow his medicine._

An unbearable ache filled his heart and Soda felt himself swallowed in by the darkness that glowed around him.

 _"Please write_ ," those was the last words Pony spoke to him. Pony wasn't speaking so much about making sure Soda kept in touch with them, but about Soda being honest with them, telling his brothers everything he saw and felt.

Of course Soda was sure hell not gonna tell Pony about the dead: boy, body parts,elephant,soul. After all, Pony was his kid brother, he had to look after him.

Soda shook his head and bought his head to his hands, his fingers cupping his forehead. He sighed. _Glory kiddo, if only you knew…_

He pressed his pen to the paper and continued to write.

* * *

Cathy pressed her hand to her head, pulling her hair through her fingers.

"Okay baby, we'll be back at 6:00." M&M was fourteen too old to be thought of as a baby, but for Cathy he would always have the innocence aura of a child, the past year only made Cathy more protective of his little brother.

Edwin "M&M" Carlson rested against the front door; he was looking at Cathy, but not looking _at_ her. That was M&M's thing, he could be staring right at you but you would swear that his mind was on a different planet.

But when you asked M&M a question, to see if he was paying attention, he would answer perfectly. Cathy never knew a kid who could pay attention while looking like he wasn't paying attention all while probing you with his melancholy grey eyes.

At least that was how M&M used to be, now Cathy wasn't so sure where her brother's mind was and she was too afraid to ask.

 _I don't even know what's going on in that beautiful head of yours baby…_

Cathy paused, feeling guilty for leaving M&M, even though she did so plenty of times for school or work. "Mom should be home in an hour, and Dad should be back by five, until then Bonnie is here…"

M&M looked down at his moccasins, his eye drawn to the turquoise colored bead near his big toe, "I don't need a babysitter…" he said without expression.

Bonnie was twelve. She and her identical twin Leslie were the next oldest kids in the family. M&M used to help Cathy babysit the little kids, Bonnie and Les included, but now his little sister was leap frogging over him in the family babysitting hierarchy.

"I'll be back soon Winnie," she said, using her mother's old pet nickname for her brother. Oh, how she wished she could go back to the days when they were Katie and Winnie. _You were so innocent_ …

"Hey," Pony broke in, "you're reading Les Mis?" Pony sounded impressed, but M&M just shrugged nonchalantly.

Cathy couldn't believe she missed the huge tome in M&M's hand, He casually held onto the book spine. _That was not an easy read, maybe M &M wasn't as damaged as that bitter doctor led the family to believe…_

"You like it?" Pony asked.

M&M gave a slight smile, "it's pretty good, have you read it?"

Ponyboy responded with a good natured grin, "nah, I probably should, seein' how it's a classic and all." Cathy smiled, this was great, her brother and her boyfriend were discussing books, the curtain of fog that M&M was drifting in and out of since last fall was finally starting to lift.

M&M turned to Cathy, a big smile on his face, "you're dating Ponyboy Curtis, aren't you? That's neat, he's a real swell guy. Have fun." He looked at Cathy, but his stare was dreamy, as if Cathy was a mirage and not standing less than three feet away from him.

Cathy didn't know what to say, all she knew was that the sparks and glimpses of the old M&M were mixed in with a kid who could float away while standing firmly on the ground.

He closed the door behind him.

Pony put his arms around her, "hey Cathy, he's reading Les Mis, that's pretty impressive…"

"It is, isn't it?" Cathy felt so unsure.

* * *

Soda crumpled up the letter to Darry. _Shit_ , he couldn't share this with Darry. He couldn't tell Darry how he went from saving a life to killing a kid, an armed kid, yeah, but still, just a kid, in one single swoop. He couldn't do that to his brother. Nope, this was his burden, he would bear it alone. He would protect Darry just like he was protecting Pony.

Soda looked down at his hands, hands that killed hands that touched dead body parts. Soda shivered. For a second he thought of Phil's dad, Mr. Mihailovich lost his fingers in a freak accident. He's so lucky, Soda thought, he don't have a trigger finger anymore.

For the briefest of seconds he thinks of shooting off his trigger finger, that would send him home, course it would probably also result in a court martial and a permanent stay in the loony bin. A darkly humorous image popped into Soda's mind, he was wrapped up like a mummy in a straightjacket, his lips fluttered, his eyes rolled up and down. But he didn't have fingers, they all flew away, tiny rockets that light up the night sky. He couldn't hurt no one else.

Soda shook his head, _get over it, Curtis._ He barked internally. Hell, he needed to man up, he did his job, the kid had a weapon…

He was a soldier, he did a soldier's duty, He wasn't a goofy kid in Tulsa no more.

 _But why did it hurt so much?_

He shut his eyes and tightened his fist.

* * *

Man, Darry Curtis's hand hurt like hell. Damn hand cramps. Darry stretched out his fingers. He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and tucked his hair back, his hair although still short compared to everyone else was the longest he ever grew it. He pulled down his green shirt and looked down on his blue jeans _, I look like a damn globe_ , he snorted.

It was a Saturday and instead of joining his crew to finish the Gadsen property, Darry was working his second job for Morgan Construction, bookkeeping. He liked it though, there was something soothing in numbers, they made sense, and ever since Soda decided to join the army, it was one of the few things in his life that still did.

He examined his hands for pencil smudges, a pet peeve of his, and methodically sorted through the invoices, rubbing the smooth wax-like carbon copy paper between his thumb and forefinger.

Outside the weather was warm, but not hot and muggy, but inside the windowless office, the air is stuffy and tight, _feels like I'm in a crypt,_ Darry mused. A trickle of sweat lined the top of forehead. The air smelled like moths and old papers. Darry looked around the room for a fan, even a small one, but besides a filing cabinet, a desk, four boxes of financial records and a small radio, the room was empty.

 _Fuck, I'm sweatin' balls._ Darry gritted his teeth together. _Damn,_ he hoped he didn't say that out loud. Robin, the receptionist, and more importantly, Mr. Morgan's niece, was in the office next door. Every now and then Darry could hear the sharp taps of her shoes against the floor.

When everything was accounted for, Darry pulled out of his billfold the reading material he really wanted to dive into, the letter from Soda. Soda had short hair again, and he made a new buddy with a Colored guy named Tap. Darry wasn't surprised, Soda was friendly to everyone, especially guys who were outcasts. Darry didn't know for sure, but he figured that it wasn't easy for black guys in the army, hell, sure ain't easy for them back home, then again, besides the lily white richie rich kids who had it easy?

Ponyboy mentioned how unfair it was that the guys being drafted into the military were all poor whites or minorities, Darry couldn't disagree. Pony was a smart kid, he knew the score.

But still, he couldn't get why his kid brother had to go _volunteer_ for the army. Volunteer the very moment he turned eighteen. Hardly wasted no time.

 _Was it that bad for you here, little buddy?_ Darry bought his hand to his face; a throbbing emptiness filled his stomach, it felt like a clawed hand ripped through his heart and stomach every time he thought of Soda. _God, he missed that kid._

Darry untangled a rubber band from a knotted ball and wrapped it around his pencil; the lead is so sharp it almost pierces through the band. He walks his fingers over the rubber band like it's a rope…

 _Soda is nine and decides to balance on an old rope bridge that Darry thought looked older than entire country. His feet balancing on the rope below, and his hands gripping on the rope above, he looked like a seasoned tight rope walker, Darry reckoned, like of those guys they saw at the circus way back when they were real little kids._

 _The rope begins to shake._

 _Soda's eyes bug out for a second and his mouth drops open, Darry's does too as Soda briefly loses his footing. It's only because of the strength in his hands and upper body that he is able to keep himself upright. But he's frozen stiff. He can't move, he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out._

 _Aw shit._

" _Help me, Darry!" he cries out in panic._

 _There are different types of fear, fear that makes you feel like you're on a roller coaster and fear that makes you feel like your feet are planted in wet cement. Darry feels like his entire body is a stiff tree trunk._

 _But Darry can't get scared, he can't be afraid, he's his parents confident, babysitter, all around jack of trades. He doesn't allow himself to be frightened._

 _Darry does the one thing he can, he takes a deep breath and ignoring his own fear, he steadies himself and steadies the rope._

" _Come on Soda, just take one step, you got it, come on, I ain't lettin' go, just take it slow and easy. I got the rope."_

 _He helps Soda get across._

 _When Soda makes it across he flashes Darry a huge grin, "that was fun, I'm gonna do it again!" Darry was incredulous, wasn't it Soda who just a few minutes ago looked like he had seen a ghost? But nope, for Soda the last ten minutes might as well never happened._

 _"Soda, you coulda gotten hurt, you coulda fallen and cracked your head open. What's wrong with you?"_

 _"I don't have nothin' to fear Darry, you was looking out for me…you always look out for me… Shoot you think 'em rope can scare me?! Ain't nothing can get me down. 'Sides it was a blast!"_

 _A blast!? Glory Soda was nuts._

Darry snapped the rubber band.

He shuts the accounting ledger and takes out the letter that is neatly folded in his billfold.

 _Dear Darry, Had an interesting week. Rode an elephant. Take Care, Soda._

That was it, everything on one line. Darry wanted to see if Pony's letter was any more revealing, but he didn't want to pry. Darry shook his head; it wasn't the length that gnawed at him, but the feeling that Soda was being so obtuse. Something was missing. Soda wore everything on his sleeves, no matter what he was feeling, he told you. He was bold and brave in a way that Darry found both frightening and enthralling.

But this Soda was so hidden Darry didn't even know what to look for.

 _What's happening over there,_ _buddy?_

Worried thoughts and flash pictures curated from the nightly news run through his brain like a pinball. Darry snapped the rubber band against the pencil. He couldn't do this, couldn't think of Soda in pain, or causing other people pain. The rubber band snapped Darry back into the room. All that matter was his brother was alive, and hey, he rode an elephant, how many eighteen year olds got do to that?

Darry chuckled. Only Soda would end up being a cowboy of sorts in motherfuckin' Vietnam.

* * *

Ponyboy Curtis reached into his pocket and pulled out a rubber band. Man, how did that get in here? He tugged down on his black shirt. It was Soda's shirt and a bit small for him, but Pony liked wearing his brother's clothes it made him feel closer to Soda.

Cathy had suggested seeing _Gone with the Wind_ at the old Bowman theater.

Pony liked the Bowman, on Saturdays they showed old movies, last week they showed _The Kid_. But what Pony really jonesed for was to see the old cowboy films he used to watch with his dad. Man, they had a lot of good times…

Pony hadn't seen _Gone with the Wind_ in years, if he remembered correctly, he liked the book better, but that wasn't surprising, Pony always preferred the books to movies. The picture he painted in his head was always more interesting than the picture on the big screen anyways.

There was one advantage to seeing _Gone with the Wind_ as oppose to re-reading the book. He wouldn't have to see those Southern gentlemen with their coal black eyes, scars and jeans jacket as they rode gallantly into certain death.

The lobby of the Bowman was almost empty, the kiddie films were over and the feature films wouldn't be shown in later that evening, that left the theater to film buffs and the bored. Pony spied the pinball machine near the concession stand.

 _Johnny loved pinball…_ Pony swallowed, expecting to feel the lump in the back of his throat that followed his memories of his buddy, but there was nothing there.

 _Maybe I'm over it?_ The thought was both welcoming and frightening at the same time; what would it be like to think about Johnny without that anguished ache that tugged on his memory?

His voice light and carefree, he challenged Cathy to a game, best two out three and the loser has to buy the winner Coke and popcorn.

"You're on," Cathy grinned mischievously. The past few months Pony felt Cathy and him drift further and further apart, yet every time he was certain they were going to break up, they ended up getting together and having a good time. It made Pony dizzy, he was pretty sure Cathy felt the same way.

But right now all of Cathy's energy went into beating the ever loving crap out of Pony at pinball.

 _Glory, Cathy was good_! Pony didn't expect that, he was planning on paying for Cathy's snacks anyway, after all, she was his girlfriend, but he didn't actually expect to lose to her.

"Bravo Cathy, you won," a familiar voice dripping with sarcasm and with a tint of sadness called from behind them.

Pony and Cathy turned around. There stood Angela Shepard. She had a broom and dust pan in her hand, Pony remembered Curly mentioning his sister got a job housekeeping the Bowman.

Angela smirked and placed her hands across her chest, Cathy ever so subtly rolled her eyes. "Hi Angela, how are ya?" Pony was impressed at how even and polite she sounded, rolled eyes aside.

Angela snorted, "shit, you blind honey?" Angela was pregnant. Pony heard rumors that Angela and was knocked up, but then again, there were always a lot of rumors about Angela Shepard floating around, this one just happened to be true. He shook his head trying to picture Curly and Tim being uncles, let alone Angela being a mom.

Looking at Angela with her swollen tiger eyes and swollen stomach protruding from her grey housekeeping uniform, Pony felt sorry for her. She was sixteen, married to one of Tim's future (if not current) criminal friends and expecting a baby.

But if Angela felt sorry for herself, you couldn't tell. Nope, she looked as fierce and determined as ever, and even pregnant she looked like she wanted rip both of their throats out. Probably could, Pony mused to himself.

Pony put his arm around Cathy even though Cathy didn't need protection; Cathy was more than capable of standing up for herself.

Angela rolled her eyes, "well you to love birds have fun, and Pony, don't forget to wear a raincoat, wouldn't want Miss. Carlson to end up in the family way."

Pony turned red. He and Cathy hadn't even... Hell, this was not the conversation he was expecting in the Bowman Theater. Cathy didn't look embarrassed at all, she just flashed Angela a tight, pursed smile, "thank you Angela, will take that under consideration..."

"Well, I gotta get back to work, ain't like Teddy is bringin' in the dough…" Angela snorted, but Pony could hear a lingering sadness in her voice. She fumbled with her wedding ring.

"Take care Angela, hope everything goes well," Pony said softly, he meant it too.

Angela didn't say anything as she walked away.

"You know," Cathy whispered once Angela was out of earshot, "I feel kind of bad for her, I know she caused a lot of her own trouble, and she's a pain in the ass, but it can't be easy for her."

Pony nodded, "yeah, me too."

"Ponyboy Curtis, is that you man?!" Pony didn't recognize the voice at first, most of the guys he knew weren't that happy sounding without the aid of beer.

Except Soda, Soda got intoxicated on pure living.

He turned around and there stood a beaming, bearded Randy Adderson. Pony still couldn't get over that Randy Adderson of all people was a hippie. His hair was past his shoulders, but his beard was still fairly tamed. He'd seen Randy around town a few times, and made small talk with him, still it blew Pony's mind every time he saw him. It wasn't Pony's scene, but he couldn't deny that Randy seemed to take to it. He had on a paisley shirt, brown leather fringe vest, brown pants, on his feet were a pair of frayed sandals.

 _Well, he certainly looks the part_ , Pony thought to himself. Pony grinned and reached out to shake Randy's hand, he was happy to see him, Randy was a good guy.

Randy was still pursuing an English degree, he now crashed full time at the Hippie House. Pony could feel Cathy tighten with Randy mentioned the yellow house and he knew she was thinking about M&M. He was glad he didn't have to worry about anything like that with his brothers. The two of them weren't dating when M&M took all the messed up acid, but from what Cathy told him, it was a horrifying experience.

He squeezed Cathy's shoulder the way Darry squeezed his own shoulder at the hospital when they found out about Johnny.

Randy didn't seem to notice, he continued to talk about the house, getting more and more excited with every word. He invited Pony and Cathy to join him later that evening.

"We're gonna do reading, discuss Kierkegaard, listen to some tunes, you know, have a good time. It's gonna be pretty mellow though, just some friends hanging out."

Cathy quickly but politely declined, and Pony shook his head no as well. "Okay," Randy shrugged good naturedly, just remember 'the most common form of despair is not being who you are!" He got in line to see one of the art house films the Bowman also showed on Saturdays.

Pony would never describe himself as a hippie, but there was part of him that was found Randy's invitation enticing. A part of him that wanted to breach that wall and hang out with people who dug books and music as much as he did, people who were a little bit strange, that's for sure, but Pony couldn't deny that he felt plenty strange himself at times.

After Randy left, Cathy quipped, "Pony, you grow out a beard and I'm gonna dump you in one second flat." Pony let out a soft laugh. He remembered Darry getting on his ass about not growing out a beard before he was accepted into college.

"My brother doesn't want me to grow out a beard either," Pony rubbed his fingers along his phantom whiskers.

"Hmm, he has good taste."

Cathy went to get a seat while Pony bought the popcorn and Cokes. Cathy didn't need to save a seat, the theater was almost entirely empty, save for ten people. Pony grinned, he hated crowded movie theaters, how could he enjoy the film with people chatting and eating all around him? Never mind there was always that one person who insisted on getting up a dozen times, and stumbling his way out of the row, right during the best part.

Pony sat down, the sole of his shoe barely missed contact with a wad of white gum sticking to the floor.

 _Great, just what I need._

The lights dimmed and Pony found himself transported back in time and place. He forgot how lush and vivid the movie was, how it popped out on the screen. The darkness of the theater wrapped around him like a cocoon.

The wild southern boys hoot and holler rebel yells as they ride off Twelve Oaks plantation to fight for the Confederacy.

 _Wild Southern boys with their thick golden blonde hair, cowboy boots and crooked grins. Would be cowboys riding elephants through jungles, wide open plantations of rice paddies, wild boys carrying machine guns and grenade launchers._

 _Boys with large brown eyes running full speed into the face of death._

Pony gripped his hands on the arm rest; he looked down at the black floor below. The wads of gum looked like stars lighting up the infinite night.

He remembered how his mom, her arm wrapped around him, cigarette dangling from her hand, taught him all about the constellations and how she used to wish on a star when she was a little girl.

Pony was too old for wishing on a star, but he closed his eyes, _please come home, Soda._

He opened his eyes into the darkness of the movie theater.

* * *

 ** _S.E. Hinton owns_**

 ** _The quote from Randy is a Kierkegaard quote._**

 ** _The Bowman theater is/was a real theater in Tulsa, but all the details about the theater are my own creative indulgence._**

 ** _To everyone who reads, reviews, likes, follows this story, your continued support means the world to me. Really, you keep me going. Thank you. :)_**


	23. The Night is Full of Stars

**Passes out. What? An update to this story?! I know, I know. A miracle and all that jazz ;) . As some people know I've had a very complex relationship with this story (to put it** **euphemistically)** **and for the longest time I've toyed with re-writing it or throwing it into the dust bin of history. It's taken me a long time to get back into this story and while it's my nature to never truly be happy with my writing, I'm glad I was able to get another chapter done. For new readers (hi!) and old friends here is some background info. Soda is in Vietnam, and though he's killed before he is particularly impacted by the killing of a young teen who had a grenade. If you have any other questions, please let me know. As always, thank you, especially for those who have been on this journey with me since the beginning, I appreciate you more than you'll know.**

 **Standard warning: it's a war story with all that entails, including sexist, racist, homophobic talk and action.**

 **STORY COMPLETE. :)**

* * *

I get a lot of mail, from Darry and Pony, of course; but also from Steve, Two-Bit, Evie, Mrs. Mathews, even Two-Bit's kid sister dropped me a note. Even Mr. Randle sent a post. Don't get me wrong, I love receiving the letters, but I feel kinda guilty because there are some guys in my unit who hardly get any mail at all.

A few of them, I can kinda see why they don't receive much mail; they're the surly types on their best day. But still, I can't imagine what I would do if I was in the middle of a fuckin' war and no one wrote to me.

I think of Dallas Winston and if he didn't have the gang he'd be the type to receive nothing but a Dear John letter from Sylvia. Shit.

I thought about asking Pony to write to one or two of 'em, you know, just to cheer them up. I know he'd do it for me, but I ended up not asking him. I didn't want those guys to think I was nosing around in their business and treatin' them like a charity case.

Here' the thing about 'Nam, it's one weird ass place and everything's a bit topsy-turvy, including that military rations they force us to wolf down; but the Army has one hell of a mail system.

Cooper tell me that's the Army's way of tryin' to build up morale; you know, have enough letters from sweethearts and moms and all that and you won't be so homesick. At least that's the plan. But, with the number of 'Dear John' letters that come through here, the Army's morale booster has the opposite effect.

When a guy gets a 'Dear John' letter we usually get some beer, say a toast to his misery and call his girl a dirty whore, which of course she is.

That's another reason I'm glad Sandy dumped me before all this, I don't know how the fuck I'd handle being dumped while riskin' being blown to Kingdom Come every night.

Plus, I don't want anyone calling her a whore.

I stare at the blank page of Army issued stationary that's lying between my lap; trying to will something, anything, to come to mind. But my mind, like the page in front of me is as dark and blank as the night sky.

My pen cap is chewed through and I rub my index finger over my bite marks. That reminds me, I always hated the dentist. Have no fear of a doctor or a broken bone or nothing like that, but put me in a dentist office and I turn into biggest punk you'd ever seen.

Chewing does nothing for me.

So, I doodle. I doodle a woman with bit tits and an even bigger smile, so you know where my mind is.

Pony says that when he can't think of anything to write, he doodles and like magic, he knows what he wants to say. Half of his homework is filled with little doodles of horses or people or sometimes just random shapes on the margin.

But Pony is freakin' genius. He don't need to doodle to come up with an amazing story, it's all up there in his mind.

Me, not so much.

I'm real good at listening, but I hate writing. Got too many bad memories of the teacher forcing me to write with my right hand. Put a pen and piece of paper in front of me, and my left hand curls up, the way Johnny did after he got that beating by that Soc; my fingers are scared of their shadow.

And Mom, I loved her so much. _"You're doing so good baby, just hold your hand like this. Soda, please, five more minutes. Hold the pencil like this. I'm not trying to hurt you, Soda, calm down! I'm so sorry baby, I know, I know."_

She just wanted the best for me, best for all her kids.

I have all of these thoughts and ideas racing through my head, stories I want to tell my brothers; but when I get that piece of Army issued stationary in front of me, I can only feel the pull of my teacher's fingers forcing my hand around the pencil 'the right way.'

But, I promised my brother and so here I am, sitting cross legged on my bunk trying to think of something to say.

You know who doesn't have a problem writing? Two-Bit. He don't got Pony's gift, but his letters shocked me. When I read his letters I can hear Two-Bit talking, I can see his cocked eyebrow. I can hear the way he drawls out the word "glory!"

His letters are long, which shocked me even more. I mean, Two-Bit ain't really one to sit down and write, or sit down and do anything, to be honest. But he does, and reading his letters make me feel, at least for a few minutes, like I ain't in 'Nam but I'm back home.

Oh yeah, Two-Bit also swears up a storm in his letters.

" _Your Mama see these letters Two-Bit? Man alive, you make me want to swallow an entire bar of soap after reading your letters. You don't touch Kathy with them dirty hands of yours do you?_

 _Ha Ha,_

 _Just screwing with you, buddy. You're letters are great, they keep me sane. Please continue to write Two-Bit. I mean it. You keep me sane._

 _From a shit hole in Vietnam:_

 _Prvt. Soda Curtis._

* * *

I'm going insane.

They tell you that your first kill is the hardest and it gets easier from there. That's a bunch of a bullshit. Cause it don't matter how long you've been in country, one week or twelve months, you're gonna have that kill that will recoil through your brain long after your fingers traced the trigger.

For me, it was the kid. That's what I call him, 'the kid.' I walk pass his body, an ear and portion of his head blown out. His mama screaming. The grenade in his hand. Or maybe his mama is in his hand and the grenade is screaming? I'm walking in a daze.

A light rain comes down, the kind that you don't even realize that you're in until you reach dry ground.

I walk and the ground is slowly spinning, and my gut, a shelf of ice, breaks open. The ground jumps with a start to kick me in the face.

I'm a ball, hyperventilating, clutching my stomach that pumps in and out and all around me is a stew of thick vomit of every C ration I've ever ate.

"Easy, easy," Philly says to me, his hand on my shoulder and for a second I'm transported back to a simpler time when I said those same words to my best buddy. Who woulda thought that the time after Dally and Johnny's death wouldn't be the worse in my life?

"It's so damn hard," I gasp for breath.

MyGodmyGodmyGod.

I've been here for more than a month, I ain't the fuckin' new guy, I've killed before and I'll kill again, but right now I can't stop shaking and weeping. My shoulders heave and snot runs from my nostrils, moistening dry lips as they make their way down my bandana. Everything in me is spewing out. It's as if every fucked up thing I've done since I gotten here has transformed into a particle of sickness and it finally got too much.

We all have breaking points, and this is mine. It's the whip of this kill that knocks me to my knees. To go from the joyful elation of saving a life to snuffing out one so young.

Every muscle claws with throbbing pain and through salt water eyes I try to look at Phil and his face, deep set with sorrow and compassion looks back at me. Don't look i wanna tell him as I dry heave out the last bit of Soda Curtis onto the ground.

There's sicknesses in this world and I'm a part of it. I thought I could do it, but I can't, I ain't made for it. But I'm stuck here, not just in Nam, but in this moment of brokenness.

I'm fallin apart man!

This is me. And my body gives another thrust of violence as it tries to escape from the man I am.

And it hurts, so fucking much, everything hurts and I can't stop, I can't stop pukin', I can't stop shaking and I can't stop crying. I'm weeping a deep guttural thrust that comes from the deepest part of my violent stomach. I'm weeping for the killing I've done, for the killing I'll do. I weep for the boy I was and the man I am. I weep for us all.

The rain, it don't stop.

* * *

When I got over here I'd knew I'd have to kill people. Didn't like thinking about it, liked doing it even less. But when it's your life vs. some other guy's life, you learn that scruples can kill you as easily as bullets.

But I got standards. I may touch Coop's prized collection, may even watch without blinking as he chops off a new ear or thumb, but I haven't done any cutting myself.

And women and kids.

I don't want to hurt 'em.

That's my line in the sand. I know that there are women fighting with the Vietcong, kids too, but the thought of hurting a kid makes me sick to my stomach.

Except here in Nam they don't have sand but the thickest jungle that ever exists on God's green earth and the only lines here are the fuckin' vines my mud and blood covered combat boots trip over.

I killed a kid.

"Your panties still tied up in knots about that boy?" Was how that buddin' voice of pastor in training Tate Parker tried to comfort me in the days afterwards.

That boy. The one I killed.

"Shit, no," I say without emotion or expression, my voice narrowed to fit in between the line of grey smoke emittin' from cancer stick balanced between my front teeth, a tight rope walker waiting to fall straight onto my shirtless chest.

My chest rises, a bug climbs onto my rib, bites me. I flick it off, a stream of sweat flows down my sternum and my stomach still feels the aftershock of puking my guts out three days ago.

My legs stretched out in front of me, I move my hands behind my head and can feel a dampness through my bandana that's wrapped around my neck. With my bandana around my neck and lazy stance I look like one of 'em old cowboys Mr. Kencaide use to hire; once they finished their errands they'd sit on a patch of grass, chew tobacco and bitched about us kids the whole day long.

Only thing I'm missing is my cowboy hat.

I'm older than they are now.

I have black sunglasses on and I'm glad T.P can't see my eyes because while I ain't crying, my eyes are so wide with frozen disbelief they feel like they're going to pop out of their sockets and explode like an M18 smoke grenade. The real dangerous color in Nam ain't black or red, it's violet; purple mountains majesty.

I run my hands through my hair. What's left of my hair.

I shrug, my face an impassive steel wall covering up a shitload of emotions and it's real strange. I feel just as much as I did three days ago, but my face is as empty as my stomach.

T.P. drones on, not looking at me. T.P liked to hear himself talk, he doesn't care if he had an audience or not.

"Christ, Curtis, you saw his body, he was a giant for kid, 'specially for a Gook."

 _Yeah, I saw the body._

"How old did he look, thirteen?" His voice picks up speed and when he turns and looks at me, he blinks before whipping away as fast as he can.

In my emptiness I'm a fuckin' pitiful sight. Here's the thing, some men are natural born soldiers, I ain't. I'm good, I get the job , if you wanna call it that, done, but I ain't no Green Beret in training.

He paces back and forth, like he's interrogating me. The heat makes me dizzy.

 _Thirteen? Fuck you T.P._ I'm this close to jumping up and pounding the shit outta him.

"Fifteen, Fourteen, I guess." My voice is lazy and ambles through the air. I will my heart beat to slow down. Even when my voice is calm, my heartbeat betrays my real emotions. I pull the cigarette out of my mouth, putting the orange glow closer and closer to my thumb daring the edge of flame to break through skin, before pulling away at the last minute.

I don't know why I pulled away.

Even in the heat of June I can still feel the distinct warmth of the flame independent from all the other source of heat that engulfs me.

"Okay, that makes it even better. He wasn't a child, he was a man. You know as well as I do Curtis, they use little kids to throw grenades at us...hell there ain't no children here, Curtis. They grow up faster here. Hell, we're more kids than they are."

And his voice, parched from talking too much, rises up and squeaks like a twelve year old kid. No, thirteen. No, fourteen. Fourteen. On the edge of manhood. I dangle my finger on the edge of smoke.

Yeah, but he was someone's child. Some Mama's son. I heard his Mama scream, she sounded like a wounded elephant. She wailed as if her soul had cracked into a million particles of dust. I did that.

In a sick way I wish I woulda killed her instead, cause it's her scream, her unbearable agony that bulldozes through my mind.

I hear her.

And when I puked my guts out, when my puke forced my throat open, my mouth formed a perfect cast of her scream. Our mouths, snapped open by grief and sickness, one in the same.

I dangle the smoke close to my left ear drum, I don't wanna hear her no more. Please, please, please. Keep her quiet. I pull it away. _Coward._

It's strange, T.P, in his own way is trying to comfort me, and I'm trying even harder to resist. I'd rather be good _and_ miserable. I've always been a glutton for punishment.

I bring the light closer and closer to my thumb.

I put out my smoke.

T.P. is still shitting out a sermon only he listens to. Me? I shut my eyes, my lashes grow three feet and for a second I fly away on a severed elephant's ear. Covered in flesh and blood. Do screams have weight? Cause it's pulling me down. Her yell. His mama's yell. Yelling for her baby.

We saw _Dumbo_ , when we were little kids. They played it in the movie theater, special kiddie matinee.

I hear voices in front of me, or behind me, or inside of me. I don't know.

"Shit, Curtis out?"

"Let him sleep"

"He's high, that boy is high. You can tell even when hides behind 'em cheap ass sunglasses, honky motherfucker."

"Nah, Curtis ain't high, he's a fuckin' Boy Scout…" (pause) "I hate Boy Scouts. Once my Uncle…"

"Ain't no one gives a shit 'bout your Uncle."

(a snort) "Least Okie knows how to fire a gun, shit."

"What the fuck is that suppose'sta mean? You got something to say? Be a ma…"

"Leave him alone guys, he's trying to sleep."

"Oh look, it's Tonto to the Lone Ranger's rescue."

I ain't high and I want to tell them all to shut the fuck up, but I can't even move my middle finger up. But my trigger finger, that I can move real well.

I wake up; Coop gets down so we're at eye level. "He was armed. You did what you had to do," he gives my shoulder a hard pat.

I stand up.

He opens his mouth and I can see the wheels turning in his head, and just like he did a few weeks ago when I killed that Gook, he comforts me. "Curtis, pull yourself together. Don't think about it, because if you have second thoughts about it, you'll never make it out of this place alive. Don't overthink it. You did good, I'm proud of you."

And those words are balm for my soul, like a drowning man I grab onto the life preserver with everything I have. That the preserver is being thrown by a man who collects body parts like Darry use to collect baseball cards is a moot point.

I had to do it, I had no choice. I'm, in the words of them social workers who dealt with Curly Shepard, and God bless any of 'em who had to deal with the dumbest Shepard, "I'm the victim of my environment."

It's the hardness of his eyes which hold me up and I realize that looking at a softer gaze, I'd only fall. And I know in my gut that the eyes which look back at him are a match.

The dirty itch of guilt still scratches through me, even after Coop's words. In my mind I know I did what I had to do, but my heart ain't there yet; my heart is still beating on some godforsakin' trail, oozing pink brain matter and a severed ear.

It's Phil who comes to my rescue. We're looking at the starless night. It's peaceful in its emptiness. It's the only peaceful thing about this place.

"You saved my life," his words are said with such kindness that my mouth opens and forms into a 'thank you', Mom always taught us to be grateful for any gift we received, and Phil right now, is giving me the biggest gift he can.

Instead, I shrug, like it's no big deal even though his words, even divorced from the look of awe and gratitude that he gives me means more to me than anything, even more than Coop's vote of pride and maybe someday, I'll believe him.

Maybe it's the result of being pumped full of Dexies by our medic, but I swear, he morphs into Ponyboy.

"I love you, kid." My voice is soft. I ain't never told no one, no guy at least, 'cept my brothers, that I love them. Course I do love Two-Bit and Steve, but shit, like I'm gonna say that, they'd think I was soft.

But I love him, in this moment and I don't know if I'm seeing Pony or Phil, if they're two people or one. But I love him. I love them all.

I avoid Dexedrine from then on. Not that I need it, shit like I could sleep here?!

* * *

I walk into the Can Can Club.

The place smells like beer and cigarette smoke laced with contraband pot, the kind Chavez was always barterin' for with them guys who set up little stands outside the base. War is a lucrative business.

Despite scrubbing 'til my skin became raw and chapped, I can still sniff out the shit intoxicated swamp water I waded in earlier. Stood in is more like it, for what seemed like an eternity. Like quick sand, but full of shit.

"Just wait 'til you hit monsoon season," Coop said with a savage grin, a mosquito landed on his chin creating a pimple of black pus. I press my fingernail deep into my own scar, an old childhood wound. I still remember the way my head bounced back when my chin hit against the trough. The exhilaration I felt too deep, too warm, too captivating to even feel a splint of pain.

We humped up a rugged hill, a mountain if you ask me, so thick in vines and trees you could hardly see the man in front of you.

I rolled my eyes, truth be told the weather here ain't too bad, a bit dry and all, but it ain't the swelterin' heat that I'd expected. But the terrain of the Central Highlands the jungles, the mountains, more than makes up for the 'break' we get.

Coop fingers the ear he chopped off a Vietcong soldier after a particularly nasty firefight.

"You'll be up to your ears in water soon enough, Curtis," he says in a straight voice. I grin with my mouth and not my eyes.

Coop kinda reminds me of Darry, the whole chopping off thumbs and ears aside, both are natural leaders with a dry sense of humor.

The place is buzzin' tonight and for a place so dank it has a sorta electric charge that only comes from being stuffed in a box with a bunch of horny, testosterone pumped guys who are all facin' the same prospect of sudden death.

I'm always up for a game of poker. The cards are old, ratted and most of 'em are falling apart on the edges. You'd think that would make an honest game of poker hard to come by, but the good news is we're usually all so snookered up no one is able to remember which card has what distinct fold or bend.

 _I learned poker from Dad. The rare nights Mom went out to find herself some peace and quiet, usually said with a shout and slam of the door, or when she would leave for a day or two to visit her old girlfriends in Muskogee, Dad invited some of his guys from work to our house for a game of Texas Hold 'Em. The games got rowdy, and shit if I didn't learn a whole dictionary of cursing on those nights._

 _Dad tried to keep the language relatively tame, a few damns, a sprinkling of hells, you know, wholesome talk, but towards the end of the night, especially once Pony went to bed and he thought Darry and me were brushing our teeth, Mr. Brown, Mr. Toddson, Mr. Smith and Mr. Raymond all became sonsofbitches or motherfuckers, depending on how much beer Dad poured into his body and how much money he poured out of his checking account._

 _Most dads would bribe their sons stay out of their hair, but Dad always seemed to like havin' us around. He always called us his good luck charms, though by how well his gambling worked out for him, the only luck we bought was for his opponents._

 _Darry stayed in the living room, eyes fixated on the T.V. occasionally glancing in on us. Smiling when Dad won, furrowing his brow when Dad lost. His eyebrows sure got a hell lot of good exercise._

 _I'd quickly get bored and spent most of the game running back and forth between the kitchen and living room, trying hard as I could not to blurt out the other guy's hands to Dad, but pulled all the same by some heavy, invisible force to the den of smoke, beer and cussin' that was our motherless kitchen._

 _The only thing that still reminded me that there was a woman in the house was her soft yellow and white curtains and the cat clock that looked down at us with what I kinda thought were snooty eyes. Even her placemats, table cloth and coasters Dad had removed, neatly folding them in a pile on top of the washer for safe keeping._

 _Without mom's table cloth I realize just how jacked up our table, with its chipped surface and worn wood that looked so old Jesus probably built it, really was. Amazin' how good mom really was at keeping all our shit covered._

 _Dad changed too. My dad didn't have a cruel bone in his body, but when Mom left to find herself some peace, his temper cracked open like an August flash flood. But he was also rowdier on those days, meaner maybe, but funnier, he belched, which I thought was a riot, told us the type of stories he'd never tell in front of Mom. Dad was a great storyteller, only person I know who could give him a run for his money was Pone._

 _Though we'd half-complain that we were gettin' too old, he'd put us in a headlock, wrestle us to the ground and tickle us half to death, before tossing us one of top of the other on his and mom's bed._

" _Pony! You still there?! Do I need to send an SOS?" He'd bellow out, cupping his hands around his mouth; and Pony, half laughing would wiggle a bare foot from under Darry's leg._

 _It was like seeing who your dad would have been if he never married Mom, and Dad, he was fun._

 _The only time I've ever seen him laugh more was when the three of us teamed up and wrestled him to the ground. The four of us chuckling and laughing so loud, Dad would through gasps of breath put his finger on top of his lips "shoot boys, we gotta keep it down, we keep it up we'll likely to get a noise complaint from the neighbors."_

 _Darry shook his head, "aww, from the Cades? Hell they'd never call the police, remember what happened the last time…" Darry liked taking advantage of being able to swear in Mom's absence._

 _Dad cut Darry off with a quick movement of his hand, eyed Ponyboy and Darry nodded. Mom always called Pony her 'last baby' well, he was Dad's 'last baby too.'_

 _It was a good time. Only Pone would glance at our mom's chair out on the porch, "do you think mom got in a car accident, Soda?" He'd ask, the worry in his face killing me._

" _You got too big of an imagination," I'd put my arm around my brother, pulling him for the window, but my ears all perked up like a bat's listening for the awful sound of a wreck._

 _Dad is in the kitchen, playing poker…_

" _Restless tonight, Pepsi-Cola?" Dad asked with a wink. He was in a good mood that night cause he already won $20.00. He knew the answer to that as well as I did. He felt it too, cause while his upper body was still, betraying no information, his feet, like mine when I sat at the kitchen table, were wildly tapping and moving, wrapping around the legs of the chair like branches on a tree after a gustnado crashes through._

 _I knew those movements, he had good hand._

 _He tipped his chair back slightly, before scooting close to the table._

 _He had a great hand._

 _Pony stood behind each of the players, memorizing their steel cold expressions and their hands, analyzing the game like the brilliant fucker he always was. He squinted his eyes as if locking the cards to his memory, his lips would flutter slightly, but he didn't say nothing before moving to the next guy._

" _Shit kid, don't ya have something better to do?" One of the big burly guys holding his cards extra tight to his chest asked in a full teethed snarl as Pony stood behind him._

 _Pony backed away, shook his head wordlessly and looked down at the floor, he's always been a real tough kid, but he freezes up a bit around adults he don't know, especially adults who are being assholes. He was a small kid for his age, and against the husky monster frames of my Dad and his buddies he withered into nothin' but a tiny ant in a green and blue striped pajamas._

 _Dad broke from his poker face, "my kid ain't doin' nothing wrong Brown. Now quit your bitchin'." He says the last word in a barely audible whisper. For Pony's sake, I think._

 _Brown tenses up and for a second it looks like Dad's words are riled up in him, edging him to fight. But, there's a larger part of Brown who doesn't give a shit, the part of him whose ass is already finding a comfy groove on my kitchen chair._

 _Brown quits his bitchin'._

" _Sorry kid." He sounded exactly like we do when we reluctantly apologize for something we ain't really sorry for but ain't itchin' to face Dad's wrath or on occasions, his belt. With a few sparse words and a fierce look, Dad put him in his place._

 _It amazed me how a big guy like Brown has the same reaction as us kids to Dad. Our dad made a grown man surrender without even raising his fists._

 _It's like discovering your dad is Santa Claus._

 _With those words Pony visibly relaxed and he shot Dad a grin so big and grateful, it was like one 'em oversized novelty greeting cards come to life. His grin, childish and sincere was a stark contrast to the bitter smirks and wobbled drunken curves on everyone else's mouths._

" _Come here, lucky charm," Dad slapped his lap, hard enough to probably leave a sting if he was a smaller man, and Pone climbed into his Daddy's lap. If I looked hard enough I could see Pony bouncing up and down atop of Dad's shaky knees. Lucky charm or not, Dad's luck had turned for the worse._

 _Seein' me, he'd put his arms out, "you too cowboy kid, the way these…" he'd gently cupped Pony's ears in his palms, "cocksuckers are playin' I need all the luck I can get."_

 _The other guys didn't blink or even react._

 _He cracked a loud muffler of a chuckle that defuses whatever tension is in the air, and even Brown can't hide a smile, in his case hidden by a snort that causes Bud to foam out of his mouth and onto his chin._

 _Even Pony smiled._

 _My dad was like a band conductor getting the various sections to all play to his rhythm._

 _Even though I felt sorta weird sitting in my Dad's lap at that age, there was something about his grin that was real inviting. So with Pony movin' over to make room, I squeezed on my dad's lap, feeling the spicy warm scent of his tobacco against the back of my neck, his fingers gently combing down my back, before I felt his thumb rub a tiny circle near the tailbone, I learned how to give back rubs from Dad as well._

 _He called Mr. Toddson a 'pussy' for only layin' down a $2.00 bet._

 _Pony looked up at the cat clock._

* * *

"Shit Okie, you gonna deal?" T.P. narrows his eyes and the heat of too much drinkin' burns off him. Not that I ain't in much of a better frame of mind.

I scratch my head and chug more of cheap ass beer they supply us grunts with, "quit your bitchin' motherfucker, I'm dealin', I'm dealin'."

Coop, T.P., Neal, Philly and me are on our 400th game of poker and our 500th beer. Neal is escapin' from this hell hole and flying back home tomorrow. Man, I wish Tap was with us. But he's with Williamson and them, playin' their own game of poker.

Out in the field we're a fairly well-oiled machine, facin' the fear of sudden death gets everyone on the same page damn quick, but away from the field, when we're humpin' through the jungle or at base, those cracks in our division become fissures.

We ain't as bad as some units where they have fuckin' race riots once a week, but still it's kinda tense between the white guys and colored guys. Until Tap, I'd never really talked to a black guy, but truth be told, I feel more comfortable with Tap than I do with a whole bunch of the white guys here.

But I ain't here to start or get into trouble, least not that type of trouble, and I'd guess it'll be worse for Tap.

My only interaction with Tap that night is a quick nod. Then we go sit at our tables, not looking at each other the rest of the night.

It's better that way, but shit, does it make me feel lousy.

I'm wasted.

"Fuck," T.P. tells me, "this place is dank, you see the officer's club? That place is classy, got some real quality grade-A broads there too."

"How the fuck you've seen the officer's club?" Coop supplies us all with the celebratory liquor from his other secret stash and it burns down my esophagus until it reaches that sweet spot where it guzzles down like rain water in the desert.

"Man, Curtis, I got my ways," his voice is lobbed with annoyance, but with T.P. 'bout half of the things he says you reckon are nothing more than a load of bull, the other half, you _know_ is load of bull.

The Buddhas and posters of John Wayne they got in this place always throw me for a loop. But hell, it's no worse than Buck's. Besides, to me it don't really matter if a place steaming with rat shit and smellin' like piss, as long as I got some buddies with me, I'm okay.

And these guys, these crazy ass fuckers, they're my buddies. Sharing a fuckin' foxhole does that to ya.

We play for Monopoly money, that's what we call the colorful military payment certificates the issue as currency. I got quite a lot of loot. Shit, would just be my luck that the war would end and all my money would be useless.

Some gal sings _Ruby Tuesday_ , least I think she's tryin' to sing _Ruby Tuesday,_ it's sorta hard to hear over all the noise and smoke. Not that I'm complaining. This sweat drenched club is the only place that reminds me of the world.

I don't know; I 'm sorta lit right now. Not drunk enough that I'm slurring my words and making a damn fool outta myself, _don't worry Curtis, that'll come soon enough_ , but drunk enough that even the old toothless Mama San they got sweeping the floor looks hot. Christ.

"Hey Irish, isn't that your chick?" T.P. says cruelly drawing the bottom of the beer bottle along his forearm.

"No,"Phil says, his eyes cold, but his cheeks are flushed.

"Leave him alone, asswipe," I wave the back of my hand to T.P., "his gal is Van, she's a sweetheart," I say to Irish.

"She's not my girl, I don't own her," Phil says under his breath at me.

"You pop her cherry yet?" T.P. ignores my hand. "I mean, you ain't all fruity are you?"

"Course he ain't," my voice firm "Christ al'fuckin'mighty, just deal."

When I try, I'm a good poker player cause I can read people. I can see the slight flicker in the eyes, the way the mouth draws down that marks a winning hand from a losing hand. My dad taught me well.

Neal, he tries to keep a poker face, and he does a decent job, but if his nostrils rise, even a little bit, that means that he has a good hand.

Phil, love that kid, but he's more exposed than a candy ass ARVN soldier. When he gets a bad hand, his shoulders will hunch up and he sighs. Get that? The kid actually sighs!

Holy titties on a longhorn! Good thing Phil don't act all dopey like that out in the field. Would get us all fucked up the ass.

Coop's been playin' sloppy and loose. It's odd, cause out in the field, he's the best one, he's the one I'd follow blindfolded anywhere, he's a bit screwed up, but he's good. Real good. I like him, more than that I respect the hell outta him. Maybe there's a part of me tryin' to gain his acceptance and favor more than anything.

I guess he really is Darry.

"You know who I'd like to fuck?" T.P. ask unprompted.

I don't know and could care less, but I shrug, "your cousin?" I wink and smirk at him, and T.P. smiles and gives me the finger.

"Nah, Okie, but I'd fuck your cousin, your sister" I start to chuckle and for the first time since I killed that Dink my laughter comes naturally; but T.P. goes on, "your mom…"

He doesn't even finish his sentence. Grabbing him by shirt collar, twistin' it, I pull him out of his chair and push him against the wall, hearing the hard smack as his back hits the dirty wall. My heart doesn't beat, but growls like a starved beast. The room is a drum snared inside my rage. I can't see no one's face, they're a red blur. But I can feel my anger and it's scorching and I feel everyone's temperature rise in perfect rhythm with mine. Like my dad I set the tone for the night; and like Dad I ain't one to take shit from no one.

"You get my mom's name outta your mouth…"My voice is low, soft even, but the heated breath of alcohol that emits from my tightened throat does all my speaking for me.

My words strangle the air.

T.P.'s nose crinkles and his face turns raged red, lookin' like he just wants to rip my ass to pieces. A part of me sorta wishes he would, it's been a sorta dull night, would be nice to have some action. Not that he could take me. Shiiiiiiit, I'd have him flat on the floor in less than a minute.

Damn, all these fuckers, cept maybe Tap, I could take blindfolded. Even Tap I could take if I'm raging, cause when I'm angry, when I ain't got nothing to lose, I fight dirty. That asshole who kicked Pony, shit, y'all, he better be on his fuckin' knees thankin' GOD that Darry pulled me off him, cause I would have turned that fuckin' turd inside out, he'd be shittin' outta his mouth and pukin' outta his asshole when I was done with him.

I'd fuckin' destroy anyone who fucks with my brothers.

Shoulders tensed up, eyes narrowed til I can see through my m43a is the kill shot in the middle of T.P.'s forehead.

But it's Coop, drowning another beer who settles the tension, "shoot, you can beat each other up on your own time, but I'm playin' poker."

When Coop speaks, we listen.

I snap outta it.

I let go of T.P's collar and cheerfully smack my hand on the table.

And like that, I ain't angry anymore. It's scary, my rage just a few minutes ago tangible and as real as my ear, now it's gone.

Though the veins in his neck are still bulging, T.P. gives us a cagey grin. "They got this woman running this place. New gal." He leans towards us, and takes another swig of beer. "Hottest fucking Dink on the planet. Hell, Okie if she wasn't a Dink she could be Miss. Universe. You bring her into a mortuary and the corpses are gonna get woodies. "

I smile, showing him that I ain't mad anymore, though I doubt this chick is anywhere as hot as T.P. says.

"There's no such thing," Neal breaks out, but T.P. ignores him.

"Suck my BALLS hot, Okie." And just in case I didn't get the point, he continued, "she's one hot mama."

He shakes his head, "didn't even think they made Dinks that hot."

"They don't," Neal retorted.

I look at my thumb, it's red. My other thumb and forefinger are squeezing hard.

"Deal Curtis, you'd think that was Jayne Mansfield cunt between your fingers the way you're taking your sweet time," Neal cackles.

"Probably has a bunch of VDs," Coop says wisely and with his sigh, I have a feeling that he's speaking from experience.

Neal shakes his head and pokes his finger through the air, "oh, I think I know who you're talkin' about, she's a total fucking bitch. I mean it, I ain't never met a whore with such an icy pussy."

Neal is better educated and speaks better than most, but when he's hammered he could be my twin with his cussing and bad English.

"You eat her?" The envy in T.P's voice is louder than the sounds of dozens of drunk soldiers.

Neal shrugs, "I got my girl back home."

A shit eating grin forms on T.P's mouth, "nice to see even the cunts here got standards."

"She hot?" I ask Neal. Not that I'm jonesing for nothing.

"Not bad, but man, whatta bitch!"Drunk and in the spirit of male bonding, we laugh.

"So, get this boys," T.P. huddles closer to us, you heard about that one soldier who's dick fell off?"

"Chop, chop, boys," T.P. makes a timber motion with his hand and moves his fingers like he's sprinkling salt on steak.

"That's an old wives tale," Coop breaks out, and I have to admit, T.P.s story and thinking of all the girls I fucked is kinda scaring me. The last thing I need is some gonorrhea, what's mom going to say when she finds out. Then I remember, she's dead.

A deep belly laugh, half hysterical half bitter thunders out of me.

"Hey, what's so funny, Soda?" Phil asks.

I shake my head, "nothing."

But it's all real funny, don't ya think?

* * *

They got good dancers here in 'Nam, I ain't talking about their chicks, but their men. Let me tell ya about how good their men dance. Most of the time you kill people here it ain't up close and personal, it's under the fog of jungle and you can't see shit. But sometimes, you can see and feel and feel everything, the up close rush of adrenaline that comes with snuffing out a life. There was one guy, the way my bullets twisted up into him shaking his legs and his arms, he danced. He danced for me. Like Elvis, but better. Shit, I've never seen nobody dance like that before, I'm telling you, he was on fire. Moved to a jungle beat all his own, it was beautiful and savage and I was captivated by it.

Blood sprays out and so does pink flesh, apiece hits me. Sandy use to wear a pink ribbon the same shade around her hair.

Sandy always got real turned on when I touched her ears.

Start at the top, brush the outline with my forefinger, stop at the lobe and gently squeeze it and wiggle it. Like my dancer, the way his flesh is wiggling away from his body. Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle.

She would let out her Minnie Mouse laugh, high pitched and curled like she's in a library or somethin' and just wants to cut loose, but can't cause the dowdy old librarian is glaring at her. She would lean into me, "Soda, Soda, Soda" she'd say in her sweet, playful voice, her perfectly coifed hair just underneath my nose.

She could make even Head and Shoulder's smell like Prell mixed with roses.

Mom was a Prell gal.

Mesmerized, I wanted pull him through my pupils and shut my eyes tight, to never forget him, to see him dancing inside the reddened squishy flesh of my eyes. For me.

I can't stop looking.

No foolin', there are bullets whizzing by, and I can't stop looking at my dancer. I'm as dumb founded and shit grinned as the FNG from Maryland who just joined us and God knows the way he acts, ain't gonna be long for this world.

I should probably get the name of his family. If I died I'd want someone to write to Darry and Pony, tell 'em about me, make me out to be a hero, you know, lie.

I think of Dally dancing under the glow of the street light. He was a dancer too. A lot of boys from my neighborhood, they'll grow up to be dancers. But no one ever danced under the starless night like my man. No one ever will.

And the road of my throat is constructed with tears, because this man, this dying, bleeding man is the most beautiful and most horrific thing I'll ever see in my entire life. I've always been a bit different, and in that moment my whole body, every particle of stomach acid, every scar, my mind, heart, soul, everything, knows that I'm caught up by the horror as much as the perverse beauty of his dying dance. And in that second, I can't tell the difference between the two.

The way the sun is coming down, his body is outlined in a gold aura.

And then it's over. Nothing good stays.

That night I find myself moving in an impossible rhythm, dancing harder, angrier than I'd ever danced before, sandbags swirling around me.

Even though I'm fully clothed, even got my combat boots on, I'm naked, ever single piece of skin, including the nasty bug bite I got on my chest exposed to the open sky. It's raining, thunderous rain, powerful and loud. I love it.

"Shout out boys," T.P. calls out, "looks like we got Elvis Presley and his wandering hips joining us tonight."

I crack a laugh, loud and maddening.

It ain't Elvis I'm aping.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

* * *

I'm changing. Though he don't realize it, it's Phil's words he uttered three days after I killed that I cannot get outta my head.

A horrible realization snakes through me, in order to survive, in order to make it back to my brothers, I'm gonna have to stuff that part of me that broke down on that trail away. To stop seeing the world in shades of grey, but black and white. Alive or dead.

"I had to do it," I tell myself, "I saved Phil's life" and then I feel it. And the faded memory of that killing don't haunt me and I feel my mouth open, slowly. But this time it's not to vomit, it's to smile.

I look at the reflection in the mirror, and the man who is starring back at me is smiling, his eyes, I try to avoid him, but I see his lips curl upwards, a small bubble of air escapes from the space between his lips.

They talk a lot about 'clean kills.' That's the lingo they use when 'em high ups are here trying to 'boost morale.' Shit, wanna boost morale? Send Ann Margaret's hot little ass over here, that will boost my morale and my dick. A two-fer.

But this is Vietfuckin'Nam there ain't a lot of clean kills here.

It's an oxymoron.

I know, shit. I can't spell to save my life, read like a demented hobo, but I remembered oxymoron all the way from Sophomore English. Course I'm gonna remember a word with moron in it.

Sophomore Year. The last full year I attended.

It's the last thing I remember being taught.

The last useless thing at least. Cause here, I learn a whole lot.

There ain't a lot of pictures you can send home. The picture of me riding the elephant was probably the extent of it. Hey, I wonder if Pony submits it to _Life_ maybe we'll make a fortune? Put Darry and Pone through college, maybe even Steve too? That would just be the shit, I'd become a fuckin' millionaire and probably get blown into a million little pieces by some little Dink before I can even spend it.

My shirt, my pants, my combat boots are caked in blood.

We don't take a lot of showers out in the field. Don't have time. Besides, ain't like water can wash it off. It's already seeping inside of me.

It's a part of me, I can't tell the difference between my dried blood and their dried blood. Maybe I too am a motherfuckin' Dink?

Some of 'em are real good fighters. Not like 'em candy ass RVA troops we gotta train.

But that kill? That _was_ as clean as a whistle. Clean as my mouth after mom scrubbed it with soap when I cursed. I killed a boy and it was a beautiful shot.

A clean kill means more than just no mess. A clean kill is a release. True release that soaks into every pore of my body. True release, not just because that Gook had a fucking grenade and was gonna fuck my buddies, but because I felt for the briefest of seconds this surge of electricity race through me. A power. For a second I was my own light source.

Yeah, I know I sound like I'm fuckin' doped up right now, but I ain't. This is just me talking. Oh, maybe I smoked some weed this morning, but that's it.

When Sandy told me she got knocked up and it wasn't my kid for a few seconds I felt genuine grief because I really want to have a kid. I may not have created life, but I've taken it.

I am a creator, in reverse.

I go out into the field, feel ants crawl on the back of my neck, the sting of mosquitoes, I'm drenched in so much sweat that even my drawers can't keep my pubes from twisting together. My feet hurt like a fucker.

And I love it. The dirt, the sweat, cause it's real. There ain't nothing phony 'bout this place. The blood, the bugs, the screams, they're all a part of me. That kid, that shot through the head he opened up a whole world for me.

A world where I am both a life saver and destroyer.

Me Soda Curtis and nothing I ever do in my life, even if I live 'til 100 will ever match the wonderful awfulness of this place. This warped heaven and gentle hell that I create.

And now I can't write to my buddies back home for an entirely different reason. It's not the curl of my fingers in retreat from the wrath of a vindictive teacher that stops me from writing; but the curl of my trigger finger.

They wouldn't understand. Even Darry and Pony who I love more than anybody, don't get shit about this place, they can't. They're good and normal.

But Darry wrote to me and I gotta write to him or else he'll get nervous. You'd wouldn't know it, but he gets more wound up than Pony, he just does a lot better job of keeping it to himself.

I hold my pen on the edge of my trigger finger, trying to think of what to say when we are living in two different worlds.

The guilt I've humped on my back like a dead elephant for smokin' that kid? Its done. Its over. It's has burned into the most beautiful bonfire and even in the rain it keeps me warm.

Each memory of the shot crackles and sparkles against the darkness of heavy eyelids, just like 'em stars Pony's always trying to get me and Darry to look at.

I start my letter,

" _Hey Dar,_

 _Tell Pony there our stars here…"_

They're called bullets. And though I don't know shit about constellations, Big Dipper, Little Dipper, here I create whole galaxies.

* * *

 _ **S.E. Hinton owns.**_

 _ **And that's a wrap. This part of Soda's journey has come to an end.**_

 _ **I've had an intense love-hate relationship with this story. I'll be honest, it hasn't always worked out the way I wanted it. But for all the mistakes I've made with this piece (and there are plenty!) It has also included some of my favorite writing I've done. Its been an at times stressful, learning experience for me every step of the way; but the best learning experiences often are... :) Im incredibly grateful for everyone who has read, favored, followed, reviewed; who have indulged me and picked me up and supported me when I've gone through the doldrums with this story. The good parts of this story, where they exist, is all due to you and your encouragement, you kept me going. I am truly grateful and from the bottom of my heart...**_

 _ **Thank you. :-)**_


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